


Anonymous Said

by alivingfire



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Alternate Universe - Tumblr, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6865171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivingfire/pseuds/alivingfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Harry was sixteen, he reached out for someone, anyone, to help him through the hardest days of his life. When Louis was eighteen, he answered. While they didn't know each other's names or faces or lives at all, really, it didn't stop them from falling a little bit in love. </p><p>And when Harry moves to Manchester for uni two years later, he meets a boy in a bookshop named Louis and wonders why it all feels so easy.</p><p>Or: two boys, two blogs, two years of anonymous messages, and a bookshop where it all comes together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anonymous Said

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Anonymous Said](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7626016) by [malishka1011](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malishka1011/pseuds/malishka1011)



> Hello hello! This was my first attempt at a pinch hitting fic, and was written very quickly, so if there are any typos or errors please feel free to let me know! I took the anonymous online friends trope and tried to flip it, as much as I could, and I also wanted to explore the idea of Harry discovering his identity while Louis is confident and helps guide him through, as opposed to the other way around. Hopefully it worked, and you all enjoy! 
> 
> Many many many hugs to [Z](http://wisepizzaphantom.tumblr.com/), my beta and Britpicker extraordinaire. 
> 
> A couple of quick notes: 
> 
> \- The books mentioned in this story are real, but I went off of online/friend reviews, because I haven't had the chance to read them myself. 
> 
> \- I don't know who actually has the URLs saintlewis and harrystylesphotography on Tumblr, so just for the record they aren't affiliated with this fic. Please don't bother them lol.
> 
>  
> 
> 8/1/16 - now translated to Russian on [ficbook](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4529950) and [AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7626016)! Thanks to malishka1011 for that.

 

**_Anonymous said: fmk beckham cristano messi_ **

_kill messi and ronaldo so i can fuck and marry beckham_

_Tagged: #i’m posh spice now bitches, #but for real can becks call me, #anon_

 

**_Anonymous said: do u like beyonce_ **

_what_  
_what is this  
__i’d let beyonce run over me in my car, because i’m sure her car is much nicer than mine and my blood doesn’t deserve to be on it_

_Tagged: #what sort of question is this,#do i love beyonce wtf,#question for you anon,#do YOU love YOUR mother,#that’s what i thought,#anon_

 

**_Anonymous said: i’m so scared i think someone told my parents i have a boyfriend and now they’re going to kick me out of the house and i don’t know what to do please help please_ **

_come off anon darling, i’ll find you some help_

_Tagged: #anon_

___

 

It all starts in two different ways for two different people that happen to intersect into one happy accident, or so they believe when they look back later and laugh about things like coincidences. They can’t see the way it was inevitable, that the tapestry could be flipped and a dozen, a hundred different threads were what tied them together; that if it hadn’t been through an online ask box then it would have been in line at a coffee shop, or a beginning of the semester meeting between them as a TA and a student, in the bathroom while auditioning for a talent show, trading glances while on dates with other people at the same restaurant, or maybe in the narrow space between the shelves of a bookshop, but we’ll get to that particular scenario a little later.

It starts because one of them reaches out for help, reaching out in the only way that makes sense, reaching out to strangers because his friends are ignoring his outstretched hand. He’s grasping at straws and they aren’t the fun kind, they’re the kind that come laced with a desperation and fear, make his mouth go dry and make him shake in his trainers. He’s searching out for a compassionate ear to listen, and he stumbles across someone who does so much more than that.

It starts because the other one felt a pull, a need to ease all the aching hearts and no clear place to start. A voluntary Atlas, shouldering the weight of the world for those who can’t do the same. He’d always wanted to be a superhero; maybe he never ran across a radioactive spider, but he did find a website full of confused people that he could attempt to herd toward happiness, and some of them almost let him.

It starts this way but it could’ve started a hundred different ways, and it was always going to end the same: by not ending, by stretching on forever like a sunlit horizon line. Neverending, that’s their end.

But the beginning is here, and it starts like this:

A scared boy clicks _Ask,_ and, a mere thirty miles away, a boy who’s also scared but who’s almost learned to tame it clicks _Answer_.

___

 

**_Anonymous said: Hiiii. I know you probably talk to lots of people, but you answered my ask when I needed someone to talk to a few weeks ago and another one a few days ago about how to talk to my mum about me being gay. I just wanted to say thank you and that I'm planning to talk to her today, fingers crossed .x_ **

_i’m so proud of you ! let me know how it goes, i’ll be thinking of you_

_Tagged: #anon_

 

 

_x_

_Tagged: #is my anon who was going to talk to their mum out there? #how’d it go babe? #i’m dying for an update_

 

 

**_Anonymous said: Hiii, I'm back and omg I'm shaking. My mum took it really well!! She didn't seem shocked or anything, and she told me that she would always love me no matter what. My sister was there too, and she was great about it as well. I feel like a weight’s been lifted off my chest, no one else has taken it well at all, thank you so much for your help .x_ **

_YES i’m so proud of you darling , that's so amazing. i was thinking of you all day today !! nearly jumped out of me skin when my mate asked me why i was staring off into space when i was sposed to be working_

_what do you mean, no one else has taken it well? do you want to talk about it?_

_Tagged: #anon_

 

 

**_Anonymous said: I would like to talk about it. Thanks for being so nice. .x_ **

_it’s my absolute pleasure, darling. let's talk it out. who do i need to fight_

_Tagged: #anon_

___

 

Or maybe it started even earlier.

Maybe for Louis, it started the first time he let his views and thoughts fly free on the internet, the first time he could say what he meant without connecting his opinions to his actual self. Maybe it was after he’d teased Lottie about her secret online diary, only to look into it and realise maybe he needed the same thing, a social network that stemmed from the words he wrote and the thoughts in his head rather than just an online grouping of all the people he saw in real life anyway. It was anonymity in the way he never thought he’d crave; people could know his name if he chose to let them and they could know little tidbits of his life, but he chose the tidbits and he sprinkled them like breadcrumbs that never led to his real identity. There were the bad parts, of course, the drama that sprung from nothing, the in-fighting and arguments, the people who caused trouble just to cause a reaction, but Tumblr soon became Louis’ _place_ , where he went to vent and steam and moan about anything that crossed his mind. He found a group, a small collection of soon-familiar URLs that left him sweet messages or made fun of him when he needed it, and in he delved.

Maybe for Louis, it started with the first little red number one over his messages icon, the words inside heartbreakingly familiar: _hi i’m sorry if this is weird but you said you’re gay and i think i am too and i’m scared, i’m so scared_. He felt it, he felt it just like he’d feel a punch, because someone was hurting and had poured that hurt into his hands, and it was his responsibility to contain it, to keep it away from the heart it wanted to infect.

And then there were another couple of messages, and a few more,

_i saw what u told that anon and i was wondering if u could help me too_

_i’m afraid they’re going to hurt me_

_is it wrong to feel this way? is it wrong to be in love with him?_

and Louis fights, _God_ , he fights, he fights against every bad word told to these kids, who seek solace from a stranger’s ask box on a blogging site. He fights because some days he gets messages asking for help, but other days he gets messages that say _thank you, thank you,_

_you’ve helped so much_

_thank you._

But maybe even _that_ wasn’t the start of it all. Maybe you have to go back even further to see the way it all wove together from the beginning.

Maybe, for Louis, it started because of Liam.

Louis had a promise, see; he’d spent his teenagehood carefully cultivating a vast array of knowledge on all things gay culture with nowhere to dump it all, and he’d spent even longer waiting for a boy to kiss who stuck around longer than a few seconds after their lips separated (and he was so tired of hearing hushed variations of, “You won’t tell anyone, right?” every time he leaned in, tired of hiding his affections like a dirty secret). But uni was a new world, and he planned to conquer it: no more half-hearted flirting with boys who were too scared of what others would think to give in to anything Louis could offer, no more “Thanks, mate,” as boys zipped their trousers and left Louis in a dark room on his knees. Uni was a chance to reinvent, to better become the Louis Tomlinson he’d always set out to be, to break a few hearts and ruin a few beds and have more fun than anyone had ever had before.

(Here at the start of his third year, he thinks he succeeded.)

So maybe it started with Liam, who was one of Louis’ potential conquests when he laid eyes on him from across the Freshers’ Fair two years ago, all careful curls and crinkle eyes and sweet smile but a rocking body under all that plaid and those bootcut jeans. Louis turned on the charm and batted his eyelashes and sipped seductively from every drink passed his way that night when they crossed paths at the pub, and then he realised a few things in rapid succession: he and Liam had the same taste in music, they were both wildly confused about what they wanted to do with their lives, they lived three doors down from each other in the halls, and there was absolutely no chemistry between them at all.

Louis didn’t get his first uni shag that day, but luckily enough the two of them each got a best friend out of the deal (though Louis will go to his grave before he ever admits to Liam that he’d been flirting).

But it all started with Liam, who found himself with a crush on a boy with eyelashes like feathers and a blonde streak in his dark hair, who left colourful fingerprints on his cigarettes from all the paint on his hands, who spraypainted Yeats quotes on the wall of the closed-down shop near the university, _we are happy when we are growing_ and _ah, how old my heart_. Zayn, his name was, and he was pretty and sharp like the edge of a shard of glass, and Liam was head over Nikes for him within a few short days.

“I’ve never liked a boy like this,” Liam had whispered, and it felt like that was the only way to have this conversation, whispering, murmuring back and forth to each other in the blanket fort they’d built in Louis’ room. “I’ve never looked at a boy and had it hit me like this.”

And Louis knew that feeling like the back of his hand, so he took his new friend and walked him through it. The ins and outs, the compulsivity of heterosexuality, assumed straight until proven gay, all those things he learned the first time _he_ looked at a boy and thought _oh, okay_. Back then he’d buried himself in research, in books and films, in long chats with his mum that went well into the night and ended in hugs and overwhelmed happy tears, and he’d come out of it knowing he was a hundred percent gay and only a little terrified of what that meant. Louis talked through a few of the possibilities and Liam had rolled _bisexual_ around and around in his mouth like he was tasting something new, and then he’d smiled, timid but bright, and said, _yeah, yeah, I think that’s it_.

They celebrated Liam’s joining of the rainbow side with popcorn and cheap beer and _Queer As Folk_ until they fell asleep, and when they woke up the next morning Louis buried himself in Liam’s side for warmth while Liam got quiet and contemplative and said, “You’re really good at this, Lou.” When Louis tried to wave the compliment away, he got a vicious shake of Liam’s head and what he would come to find out was his patented I’m Being Honest and You’re Being Flippant face. “I’m serious,” he’d said, and it almost pulsed with sincerity. “Thank you.”

Yes, that was it. That was where it started.

Soon after, a girl in Liam’s Vocal Composition course stopped showing up to lectures. When Liam went to check on her, he found out her mum was refusing to speak to her because she’d got a girlfriend. He brought her to Louis, who had her sorted and smiling in minutes, leaving his room later with a handful of biscuits, a tea stain on her jumper, and a list of resources clenched in her hand.

A trans boy Liam knew through a mutual friend was having hard time finding a new binder he could afford, and he was worried that he’d have to start binding with tape and a sports bra if he couldn’t find one soon. Liam brought him to Louis, who called in a favour at the specialty shop where his friend Perrie worked and had a new binder in the boy’s hands by the next day.

A person from Zayn’s art studio was terrified of going to get condoms since they didn’t really identify as stereotypically male, and they were terrified of being teased or insulted by someone who didn’t understand their identity. Zayn mentioned he had a friend who could help and Louis bought the person a box of condoms and bought a family sized box of his own, which he stuck on a table outside his flat in the halls with a sign taped over it:

 _have at it, you animals_ _  
_ _but NO BABIES and NO STDS_

“Louis,” Liam said in awe when Louis talked a random girl through a dysphoria-related panic attack, “you should get paid to do this.”

And Louis’ retort was on the tip of his tongue when he stopped. Thought about it.

“You know what,” he said, and he can still remember it like it was yesterday, “I should.”

He went to the uni administration offices the next day to change from studying Drama and English Lit to Sociology and Psychology, he started a Tumblr account a week later, and the rest, as they say, is history.

___

 

**_Anonymous said: Hiii :D I just realised I don't know your name, isn't that strange? You've helped me with so much and I only know your url. Anyway I thought I'd let you know that I might have a boyfriend soon! There's someone I asked to go see the new Black Swan film with me and he said yes! .x_ **

_get in !! my anons are the hottest of the bunch, getting dates and boyfriends left and right. i’m like a proud mum_

_Tagged: #and i don't really want to attach my full name here, #because heaven forbid i’m ever trying to get a job, #and potential employers stumble across this blog, #which can only be described as an eclectic collection of sexuality musings and memes, #but, #i suppose you can call me lewis, #that's what everyone else calls me here, #:), #anon_

 

 

_x_

_Tagged: #black swan date anon how did it go???_

 

 

**_Anonymous said: Hiii. It didn't go well, he didn't know it was a date and left halfway through the film. I'm back at home in my pyjamas now, eating my feelings and some ice cream. :( .x_ **

_that bastard!! he didn't deserve you anyway_

_let's talk about happy things . what ice cream are you eating? was the film decent at least? what are your thoughts on natalie portman (and if you say you don’t care we can’t associate anymore sorry)? what do you do in your free time?_

_Tagged: #i need a name for you babe, #what do you want me to call you?, #anon_

_____

 

Except, of course, that Louis isn’t the only main character of this story.

For the other half of the fated pair, it wasn’t such a smooth tumble into the place he was meant to be.

For Harry, it started with a party when he was sixteen.  

Gemma was home from uni and he’d tagged along when she went to a friend’s house for drinks, but then a few people called a few more people and suddenly it was a proper party, beer and liquor bottles strewn across the dining table like an alcoholic free-for-all. Harry found some of his friends from school and did a round of shots, and then another, and he wishes now that he’d been smart enough then to blame it on the booze, but his head wasn’t clear enough then for that sort of forward thinking.

All he knew was that he had a girl up against the wall–Maddy, her name was–and he was doing his thing; a one-sided smile, a look through his eyelashes, a deep chuckle here and there to make her shiver, and she was almost his. He’d take her out back for a snog and when the boys clapped him on the back for it at school on Monday, he’d grin bashfully and shake it off.

Lothario Styles, they’d call him, and Harry would pretend he liked it. Harry the Heartbreaker.

(Manwhore. Slut. Slag. Those were never said to his face, but he heard them anyway.)

“Curls get the girls, eh, Styles?” they’d say, and ruffle his hair and send him on his way. Maybe he’d kiss Maddy again, maybe he’d put her back against the wall in the hallway at school where they’d surely be seen, maybe they’d date for a couple of weeks before deciding to just be friends.

And then the cycle would start again.

So there was a party, and there was vodka, and there was loud music, and there was Maddy, and, then suddenly, there was something else.

Harry looked away from Maddy for only a moment and his eyes fell on someone looking back. A pretty someone, wide eyes and thin shoulders, dark hair and a tight t-shirt. Skinny jeans and plastic cup in his hand. Smile on his face, like he knew. Like he _knew._

And Harry didn’t notice when Maddy tried to slide her hand to his waist and recapture his attention, and he didn’t notice when she gave up and she walked away, but he _did_ notice when the stranger across the room smiled about it. And he _definitely_ noticed when the boy made his way through the crowd, magicking another cup seemingly out of nowhere and offering it to Harry when they were close enough to hear each other.

“Drink?” he’d asked, and Harry’s heart was beating too fast to attempt any words, so he nodded. It burned going down but Harry couldn’t tell you what it tasted like, except maybe adrenaline and fear and excitement so chaotic it scorched through him like wildfire. “I’m David.”

“Harry,” he’d choked out, and David grinned. He looked older than Harry, the line of his jaw sharp like he was inching into manhood when Harry was still solidly in his teenage years.

“So, Harry,” David said. He smiled, and it felt like something brand new. “What’s a nice boy like you doing at a place like this?”

And so it went. David talked about the party, about the person who invited him to tag along, about how much he liked Harry’s hair and dimples and his slightly-too-tight shirt. And, despite himself, Harry relaxed; he didn’t notice he’d taken Maddy’s place against the wall as David hovered over him, not until much later, a couple more drinks inside him and a flush burning his cheeks. David was close, close enough that Harry didn’t realise he was counting his eyelashes out loud until David grinned again and ducked his head.

It was the loud and boisterous familiarity of a party reaching its apex when David (finally, suddenly, spectacularly) leaned in and pressed his mouth to Harry’s. But, teenage antics be damned, the world fell a little quiet when lips parted and Harry’s breath was stolen. Not silent, because there was the pounding of Harry’s heart and the rushing of blood in his ears and he’s pretty sure he dropped his drink to thunk loudly on the floor, but it was quieter. Like a timestamp. Like a memory Harry already wanted to remember when it hadn’t even ended yet.

And, in that quiet in Harry’s head, a small, traitorous voice whispered, _this is what I’ve been looking for all along_.

David pulled back and they were both smiling, Harry feeling a giddiness tingle in his veins and cheeks and fingertips that he knows he wouldn't have felt with Maddy. That was the only kiss Harry got from David that night, but that had more to do with Gemma appearing moments later and grabbing Harry's elbow while hissing _I told Mum we'd be back an hour ago, let’s go_ than any reluctance on Harry's part.

He didn’t realise until Monday morning that someone had got a photo of it all.

Harry found out soon enough, though, what with the dozen copies of that photo taped to his locker, waiting for him. The tittering giggles of nearby students, his friends and classmates, watching for his reaction was like the worst kind of accompanying soundtrack to the warning alarm ringing in his head. The photo was shaky and blurred but that didn't keep it from being unmistakeable, David's hands cupping Harry's face only accenting his features, somehow making him more recognisable, rather than less. A moment that had seemed so quiet, so simple as it happened, caught forever looking like chaos paused, partygoers indistinct smudges moving around Harry and David's still forms, their lips attached. Caught forever; physical proof of the one time Harry hadn't been playing Lothario Styles.

He took the pictures down one by one (hands shaking, always shaking), tossed them into the nearest bin, and immediately walked right back home. The whispers of his classmates followed like buzzing insects, words he couldn't swat away.

And that was the drop of water that burst the dam, as it turned out. It was hard enough fighting battles in his own head, but fighting himself and the world at the same time was too much, too hard. He couldn’t do it alone. But he couldn’t tell anyone, because admitting what he’d never wanted to say out loud would be even harder. He couldn’t tell his mum, couldn’t tell his friends, couldn’t tell his sister, couldn’t tell anyone.

Couldn’t even tell himself.

 _Help,_ he typed, his last resort, a plea to a stranger, _help, please, please help me_.

And he got lucky: they _had_ helped, this mysterious someone, a wealth of knowledge and advice, a quick wry comment to make Harry smile. _come off anon if you’d like, or if you feel more comfortable staying anonymous that’s cool too,_ the person said, this stranger, and the pressure on Harry’s shoulders lifted, just a little.

It was a lifeline. A shaky lifeline, but one nonetheless. A rope cast out to save someone drowning, and he'd only barely been able to catch it.

Or, maybe that wasn’t it either. Maybe it didn’t start the first time Harry reached out, that was just the knot that bound them. Maybe it was a buildup, a need that grew.

Maybe it started when Harry was fourteen, and Sara was his girlfriend but all they’d done was held hands, and he didn’t really have any opinions on that except that sweaty palms weren’t very pleasant. He pressed a quick peck to her lips after a date to the cinema one night and he didn’t really have opinions on that either, just that her lip gloss was sticky and she smelled like brown sugar and he liked the sound of her laugh.  

But maybe it was just Sara, he thought. Maybe they were better off as friends, and she agreed. So then he dated Lauren, who smelled like rosebushes instead of brown sugar but whose kiss didn’t feel any different, Jessica, whose palms slid against his just like Sara’s had. Amy, who had pretty hair and a quick smile but felt more like his sister than anything else.

And on and on. His nan’s friends pinched his cheeks and called him a ladies’ man, and Barbara started rolling her eyes every time she caught Harry kissing his newest girlfriend over the counter at the bakery. Harry’s stepfather Robin sat him down and had an excruciating talk about being safe and respecting a girl’s wishes as well as his own, no means no and all that, and Harry nodded until he thought his head would fall from his neck; he didn’t know how to say _don’t worry, it’s never going to go further than this._ He couldn’t ask _is that all? Is that the magical feeling I’m supposed to feel?_ , he just nodded and nodded and pretended like he was listening when Robin told him about making sure to always use a condom.

And Harry knew, that was the thing. It was a growing feeling, but a familiar one, that resurfaced every time he kissed another set of lips attached to yet another girlfriend. Holmes Chapel wasn’t that big, and he’d already branched into kissing older girls and a couple of younger ones when he tapped out the pool of potential in his own year. He knew eventually that he’d have to admit that he could kiss every female in Cheshire and it wouldn’t change a thing.

But not yet. He could keep trying. Maybe he just hasn't found the right girl.

(He knew he'd never find the right girl. There _was_ no right girl.)

Fourteen blurred into fifteen blurred into sixteen, and it continued. He didn’t mean to earn a reputation, but small towns and all that. Get caught kissing a few different girls in the span of a few months and it’ll eventually get back to your mum. Kiss a few more and the nicknames start.

(He never let himself think it, but it was there nonetheless: getting called a slag was preferable to the truth. Kids are cruel but teenagers are crueler, and anyone different was sure to be demolished. He could kiss his girlfriend and roll the judgement right off his back, because the judgement was based on something that wasn't true.)

It was when Harry turned sixteen that a countdown of sorts popped into his head. Just two years and a few months, and he could leave town. Two years, and maybe he could go a few weeks without chatting up a girl just so his friends could see it happen. Two years, and that label wouldn’t seem so scary when he attached it to himself.

(Maybe it would have all been different if he could have left the village earlier. At fifteen, he’d briefly entertained the idea of just getting it out of the way and _saying_ it, but then Robbie and Jim got caught in Jim’s bed by his parents and the village went into a frenzy. Robbie’s family moved a week later and Jim came to school bruised around the eye; Harry never heard if it was Jim’s dad or his own group of friends, and in the end it didn’t matter. A small, conservative village being called intolerant was putting it lightly. Kids are cruel, teenagers are crueler, and adults are the cruelest; they spot differences and do more than tease, they crush, they disintegrate broken mould children under their heels until they fall back in line.)

Two years and Harry would be gone, and it would be a long two years. But he could make it, because he'd date pretty girls and hold their hands and bat away any suspicion with a laugh and a joke. That was the plan; it wasn't foolproof, but it was better than the alternative.

A little over a year and a half away from being able to leave Holmes Chapel for greener, more tolerant pastures, a picture of Harry kissing a boy at a party surfaced and things suddenly seemed a lot less simple.

A little over a year and a half away from leaving it all behind, and an obstacle was thrown in his path.

A little over a year and a half away from freedom, and Harry messaged Louis for the first time.

And some way or another, that’s how it starts.

___

 **_Anonymous said: Hiii_ ** **_Lewis_** ** _. You can call me H .x_ **

_well hello H. it’s nice to finally sort of meet you._

_Tagged: #anon_

___

 

Sunlight warms the open, airy space of Grimshaw’s, lighting up the worn rug that leads from the front door to the till and bringing out the almost-faded blues and reds of the old woven cloth. It’s a drowsy sort of summer day, heat from the late August sun like a thick blanket around Louis’ shoulders. The windows are flung wide to catch any sort of breeze that feels like making an appearance, and Louis’ t-shirt sticks to his sweaty back.

Louis yawns, rubs his eyes, tries to refocus on his computer screen. His courses haven’t even begun yet, and he’s already tired just reading over his required book list.

“Niall,” Louis says, and the shop is so warm the air seems to absorb his voice.

“Yes, petal?” Niall calls from between the shelves to the right, the biography section, it sounds like.

“How much would I have to pay to get you to do all my readings for this year?”

Niall’s head pops out from behind a pile of the latest shipment of copies of _Gone Girl_. He’s holding a biography of Freddie Mercury in his hand, and Louis mentally pats himself on the back for a good guess. “How many readings is that?”

“Um,” Louis looks back down at his list. “Four textbooks, six novels, and a handful of online articles.”

Niall disappears again, accompanied by the familiar sound of a book slotting into place between its peers. “Le’ssee. I think five thousand pounds should do it.”

“Five thousand?” Louis demands. “That’s utter shit.”

“Your books are boring, mate,” Niall answers, the laughter clear in his voice. “Not my fault.”

“I don't have five thousand pounds,” Louis says. He isn't pouting, no matter what Niall thinks.

“I know. I have the same job as you,” Niall points out.

“No you don't,” Louis grins.

Niall groans, and there's another _thunk_ as a hardcover book hits the back of the shelf as it’s shoved into place. “That's because you've got Nick wrapped around your finger,” he accuses. “You batted your lashes and he made you manager, when ‘ve been working here just as long as you, and _I_ actually do m’ job.”

“I do my job!” Louis says, but Niall just hums like he doesn't believe him.

Louis grumbles and taps his fingers on the trackpad of his laptop, switching away from his dismal reading list to a new tab in his browser and deciding that he will be ignoring Niall for the next twenty minutes as his punishment. But:

“I’m ignoring you for twenty minutes,” he announces, and Niall snorts.

“Fair,” he says. “A fitting punishment f’r someone who refuses to earn your degree or do your job for you.”

Louis has lots of things to say to that but he’s already started Niall’s allotted twenty minutes of silence which means he can’t, so he just sniffs loudly and haughtily in Niall’s direction and navigates to Tumblr. Niall laughs again, and the sound is almost lost among the pages on the shelves.

There are twenty new messages waiting in Louis’ inbox when the website opens and he answers them quickly: yes, Rihanna looked bangin’ in her new paparazzi pictures, yes, he _has_ seen the new _Game of Thrones_ episode and no, he isn’t okay, yes, he watched the United match yesterday and a bloody disgrace it was. A couple of messages are asking for links to hotlines or websites that he'd mentioned previously, and he directs them both to the most popular post on his blog: a list of dozens, maybe hundreds by now, of resources for LGBT people needing help or information. It had taken him ages to research and put it together, and it’s how he got a good majority of his thousands of followers, though he does like to think some of them stick around for his witty one-liners and observational humour.

But there’s one message buried amongst the others that makes him smile automatically when he sees it: he has a few followers who message him regularly with updates of the goings-on in their lives, and he loves them all just like he loves his little sisters and brother, but this is different. The messages from the mysterious H started over a year ago, maybe even a year and a half, and are as regular as the beat of the tide.

They’re always anonymously sent, though Louis has promised multiple times that if H felt comfortable coming off anon he wouldn’t publish his blog name, but H always declined. _I like to keep this part of me separate_ , he’d said once, and it made Louis sad to think of it that way, but that was H’s choice.

 **_Hiii_** , today's message starts, just like always. His typing style has changed and evolved a little over their months of conversation, and while H no longer includes over-the-top emoticons and has dialled back his use of exclamation points, that opening is always the same. Louis always wondered to himself what it sounded like in H’s head every time he typed that out. Wondered if it was meant to be read as bright and chipper, or slow and calm. Wondered what sort of coincidences and good luck would have to fall in line before he ever heard it for himself.  

 **_How are you today,_ ** **_Lewis_** ** _? I’ve been packing up for uni all day, it’s getting close! It’s unreal - I’ve been waiting for this time for years, and it’s finally here. I think Mum’s happy too, not because she wants me to leave, but because she worries. A few boys got rough with me again when I was walking home from work, and I keep telling her there’s nothing she can do, but I think she’s ready for me to be somewhere less… Well, you know. Less hateful. .x_ **

Louis smiles out of reflex—not that he’s happy, just that he can’t help it when it’s H—and he bypasses the other messages waiting for his attention to click the Answer button.

_hello h ! my day has gone well, thx for asking. am at work at the moment with the irish one, but soon as it hits 4 oclock i’m gone to the pub._

He pauses, lifting his fingers from the keys. Louis doesn’t know much about H: he knows H is a boy, that he’s from the U.K. or somewhere that at least uses U.K. spellings of English words, and that he’s from a small town that is vitriolic and intolerant enough to terrify H into silence about his sexuality. He knows H has had rumours floating around himself for years, since he was nearly forcibly outed, which was the event that pushed him into looking for help online and stumbling across Louis’ blog in the first place. Louis knows that the only reason H’s whole town doesn't know for sure that he's gay is because he'd pled drunk the night he'd been caught with another boy, so trashed he didn't realise he'd been kissing someone who wasn't a girl. He knows that H has been biding his time and hiding his secrets since that same day, waiting for the moment he could be open and honest with more people than just his immediate family.

Louis knows all this, but only because H has allowed him to know it, and something about that freezes the air in Louis’ lungs. He wants to know _more_ ; he has this picture in his head of a quiet, kind boy, sharply intelligent and brilliantly astute, brave and funny and collected and warm, who pulls the pain from his own heart like sucking poison from a wound. Poison that he deposits into Louis’ hands to dispose of properly, a job that he takes seriously.

Louis knows all this, that he's right about this mystery boy on the other end of a years-long correspondence even with no proof; wishes he knew him in real life so he could confirm it all as fact.

He crafts a reply, making sure that H is physically okay as well as emotionally, that he knows Louis will always be there to talk if he needs it. H won't accept other help, but he always comes back to Louis anyway, as if the mere existence of their conversation is enough to make him stay.

“Done,” says Niall a few minutes later when the box of new arrivals is completely shelved and inventoried. He dusts his hands and makes his way back to Louis, hopping over the old polished wood of the counter to stand behind the till, trying to peek over his shoulder at his laptop screen. Louis checks the time, sees there are still three minutes left in Niall’s silent treatment, and primly slides his laptop away so Niall can't see anything. “Oh,” Niall says when he catches on. “You're still ignoring me, then?”

Louis doesn't answer. He's not typing anything, just clicking around and rereading his reply to H for typos, but Niall doesn't need to know that.

“Louis.”

Silence.

“Lou.”

More silence. Niall sighs. The standoff is interrupted when the bell over the front door tinkles, announcing the arrival of a customer.

“Good afternoon!” Louis calls cheerfully, startling Niall and making him jump. “Welcome to Grimshaw’s. If you need anything, please let me know!” With that, he turns to Niall and raises a single eyebrow, a clear _you said I don't do my job, hmm?_

“Actually,” says the little old lady who's toddled in. “I do need help, thank you.”

Louis immediately regrets winning that point from Niall.

It takes several minutes to escort the customer to the nonfiction section towards the back of the shop, and to reassure her that if there are any historical accounts of the Battle of the Bulge, they'll be here, and that he’s absolutely sure her grandson will love it, and that no, sorry, he’s not available to date her granddaughter, no matter how sweet she (or her grandmother) is. He feels physically drained by the conversation when he slips away as she starts perusing the shelves, though Niall might be slightly correct in insinuating that he hasn’t exactly been pouring his entire being into work today. People are just too exhausting; he must reserve his strength for more important things.  

When Louis makes his way back to the front, he sees Niall tilting his laptop screen towards himself.

“Ooh,” he says, smirking widely, “is this loverboy’s hourly love letter?”

“He's not my loverboy,” Louis says, smacking Niall's hand away from his screen and fighting the blush on his cheeks. “And shut up.”

“Writing secret messages of love anonymously across the internet,” Niall sighs dreamily, pretending to swoon. “A twenty-first century Romeo and Julio.”

“Romeo and Julio sounds like a porn duo _,_ ” Louis says, “and shut _up_.”

“You tell each other about your days, and you talk about work like it’s a casual chat-”

“It _is_ a casual chat, why don’t you get this-”

“And you talk about your friends,” Niall continues, straightening back up and peering at the screen once more. “Though why am I just the Irish one? I should be the hot one. Tell ‘im your hot friend says hi.”

“But I haven't talked to Zayn in hours,” Louis says innocently, cackling as Niall gasps in affront. They scuffle for a moment, until Niall wrestles Louis into a semi-chokehold so he can reach over his shoulders and type a message at the bottom of Louis’ reply. He hits Answer before Louis can erase it, and Louis can't delete it or H will never see his answer to his message. He's never not answered a message from H before, and doesn't much feel like starting now.

“You bastard,” he says, and Niall grins widely.

“It's not nice to keep secret online relationships from your friends,” Niall sing-songs.

“He's not my-” Louis says, but sighs hopelessly. He's explained it a dozen times, but the boys still insist that Louis and H are quasi-online boyfriends in some way or another. “Whatever. C’mon, it's officially four o’clock, Zayn and Li have spots saved for us at the pub.”

The new girl, a first year named Leigh-Anne, chooses that moment to appear, the tinkling bell over the door signalling her arrival. She smiles and hugs Louis and Niall in greeting as she settles in for an evening shift behind the bookshop’s till. They call their goodbyes and make their way over to their favourite pub a few streets away, the summer sun still beating down on their shoulders.

“So when do we get to meet this online boyfriend?” Niall asks as they shoulder the door open and are greeted with the cool, dim familiarity of the pub.

“You can meet him right after I do,” Louis says, and he laughs when Niall brightens. “Which is never going to happen, Ni. Sorry about the burst bubble.”

The topic of H and his daily messages are forgotten as Niall and Louis join Zayn and Liam at their usual table and fall into a round of pints, celebrating a sunny summer day.

___

 

... _i think i’m just as ready as you are for you to be free of your hometown. you deserve to be somewhere that loves you for being you, h . you’ve got so much love in your heart and nowhere to put it. i’m excited to watch you take the world by storm. :)_

_PS this is niall th hot irish one hello mysterius online bf tell yur lovr to quit hiding yo frm us !!  also hes pinchng me rn so apolgies fo typos!!! @!~_

_Tagged: #anon, #H_

 

**_saintlewis_ **

_if H is out there please forgive my stupid friend, he’s a moron and also DEAD TO ME FOREVER or at least until he’s done buying me drinks_

_Tagged: #i didn’t want to delete the answer bc i didn’t want you to think i was ignoring you, #but SOMEONE had to go and add his commentary, #which NOBODY asked for, #and idk why i’m indirecting him it’s not like he’ll ever see, #H_

 

Harry’s cheeks hurt from grinning as he locks his phone, slipping it into his back pocket. This is already the greatest day of his life, a reply to his message from Lewis is just the cherry on top of the sundae.

“Harry!” calls his mum from outside, her voice faint through his open window. “Let’s go, love!”

Harry takes a deep breath and looks around his childhood room once more; his old band posters and photography prints are still pinned to the wall, his shelves filled with trophies and knick-knacks and the books he wouldn’t need at university, his bed made up with the guest linens. His heart thumps in his chest like it’s trying to stay behind, and for a moment Harry wants to let it. The concept of uni is amazing, but equally terrifying: something new, something different, something he wants to rush out to meet head-on and at the same time hide from beneath his covers until it goes away.

But the future is calling, and he must go.

Harry’s brand new camera thuds against his chest as he spins and makes sure he hasn’t forgotten anything; Manchester is only thirty or so miles from Holmes Chapel, but it feels like a world away. In a burst of sudden nostalgia, he lifts the camera to his eye and snaps a final picture of the way afternoon sunlight falls across his old familiar bed.

“Harry!” his mum calls again.

Harry flicks the light switch off as he passes, leaving his old life behind.

___

 

The flat is dark when the boys stumble back into it, heavy with alcohol and the weight of a long day on their shoulders. End-of-the-day drinks at the pub had turned into celebratory shots at the pub (“What are we celebrating?” Louis had shouted, but all he got in answer was another small glass pressed into his hand), and now they’re all sloshed, messy and sloppy from a good night. Niall makes his unsteady way to the kitchen immediately upon entering, while Louis, Liam, and Zayn collapse their way onto the nearest available surfaces (the sofa, loveseat, and living room rug, to be specific). Niall reappears holding a handful of beer bottles, passing them around before falling onto the sofa next to Louis.

The hiss and crack of the bottles opening are the only sounds for a few minutes, the four of them content to sit in the semi-darkness of their living room if it means none of them have to lurch to their feet to turn the lamp on.

“S’dark in’ere,” Niall mumbles, like he’s just realised.

“So?” Liam asks, his head dropping like he’s nodding off while still sitting up.

“‘sides,” Zayn says blearily, waving his hand in the air above his head. “S’nice when’s dark in’ere. S’all— _hic_ —ambiance. R’mantic.”

It is sort of romantic; yellow-orange from the streetlight outside peeks through the shades on the window, cutting paths across the floor. Zayn looks like a photograph where he’s splayed out in the centre of the room, slices of himself edited out by dark shadows, his chest and hips thrown into sharp relief even with Louis’ blurry vision.

And, speaking of romantic.

Louis’ phone buzzes where he dropped it on the table, and from where he’s sprawled out he can see the tell-tale navy blue of a Tumblr notification, which must mean he’s got a message.

“Loverboy!” Niall shouts nonsensically, and Louis hiccups at the loud noise. “Innit?”

“Wha?” Louis asks, pushing slowly so he can sit up and reach for his phone without faceplanting off the sofa.

“Tha’s him, innit,” Niall says, pointing at Louis’ phone. “Th’ one you liiiike.”

“Shut’p,” Louis grumbles. “Don’ like ‘im.”

“Who’re you talking abou?” Zayn asks.

“The one he talks to on Tumblr,” Niall says, like Louis isn’t right there.

“Oh, you mean H,” Liam says knowledgeably. “Louis’ secret online friend.”

Niall snaps and points at Liam this time. “Tha’s the one.”

“It’s not-” Louis starts, but is distracted when he reads the first part of H’s latest message ( ** _Hiii. I’m here! At uni!_** ) and his grin stretches across his face without Louis ever giving it permission to do so.

Liam snorts. “Is too.”

Louis looks up from his phone, frowning. “Wha’s too?”

Liam frowns as well. “It’s too.”

Louis squints at him. “ _What?_ ”

“Oh my God, shuttup,” Zayn says from the floor.

“Lis’sen,” Niall says, scooting closer to Louis and patting his shoulder. “S’okay if you like ‘im. Even if he doesn’ actually exist.”

“He exists,” Louis defends. “He jus’, he-” Louis sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair. He’s far too drunk for this. “You ever meet someone new ‘nd s’like, like you’ve known ‘em your whole life?”

It’s quiet for a second, then:

“Yeah,” Zayn says, looking up at Liam, who’s smiling back like he agrees.

“See, s’how it is wiv’ me ‘nd H,” Louis says. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, sleep pulling at the edges of his vision. “S’like. There’s thousands of blogs online, ‘nd he found mine. He picked me, and here we are.”

Niall hums like he’s mulling it over, then grins. “So, wha’ you’re saying s’that you’re comparing your relationship wid’ H to Liam ‘nd Zayn’s.”

“Mhmm,” Louis says.

“Long-term committed couple Liam ‘nd Zayn,” Niall continues.

“Mhmm,” Louis repeats, then. “Wait, s’not what I-”

“Too late!” Niall crows maniacally, and even Zayn laughs from his spot on the floor. “Gotcha!”

Louis groans and drops his head into his hands, but he can’t help but laugh as well. “Okay, alri’,” he chuckles. “Maybe I like ‘im a li’tle. Doesn’ mat’ta, though. Never gonna meet ‘im.”

It’s the last thing he remembers before he falls asleep.

___

 

Harry’s slow to wake the next morning, his head pounding like a bass drum with each beat of his pulse.

 _Welcome to uni_ , he thinks, but it’s hard to be bitter. More like it’s the dredges of regret tinged with leftover giddiness, remnants of the many, _many_ drinks he’d had with his new flatmates lingering in the corners of his eyes and on his heavy tongue. He stumbles into the ensuite bathroom for a shower and emerges feeling a little fresher, a little less like he’s going to throw up everything he’s ever eaten in his life. He slips on some jeans and leaves them unbuttoned, his stomach protesting anything tighter than the waistband of his boxers for the time being.

He should be social, he knows that, and can hear some of the others stirring outside his new bedroom door. But, just for a moment, he throws himself back onto his bed and rests his laptop blow his ribcage, the heat of it soothing against his roiling stomach.

His email is meticulously empty, every message sorted into categorised folders and the trash deleted daily, so there’s nothing there to distract him. Facebook is just depressing, what with all the babies and weddings that aren’t his, and it’s too early for anything interesting on Twitter. Tumblr it is, then, and Harry only has to type the “t” for the suggestion to show up.

The last picture he’d posted, the one he’d taken of his bedroom back in Holmes Chapel, has garnered quite a bit of attention, and he checks the tags and replies to see if there’s anything interesting to respond to: there isn’t, just a lot of the same, _beautiful as always, Harry!_ and _you’re an artist hazza_. He’d debated, a few years back, whether to start his own website to showcase his photography, or to close out his old blog and start fresh there. Tumblr had won out, in the end; he liked the interactivity of it, and the ability to balance personality posts and his pictures. Besides, he’d thought at the time, if he was ever going to be taken seriously as a photographer, he needed numerical proof people liked his stuff. A personal website is all well and good, but there’s nothing like being able to point to the post of his that garnered over a hundred thousand notes, a shoot he did out at the abandoned house on the edge of the village, or the graph showing his ever-increasing numbers of followers.

Plus, there’s all the extra benefits of Tumblr, too. It has memes that Harry sends to Gemma and weird inside jokes and, best of all, it has a Lewis.

Harry’s Tumblr homepage is definitely one of his most visited sites, but there’s one he checks even more regularly: just clicking the address bar has suggestions popping up, and **saintlewis.tumblr.com** is the first option.

The latest post on Lewis' blog has Harry’s heart fluttering, though after over a year and a half of Lewis consistently answering his messages it probably shouldn’t have that effect on him anymore. It’s not one of his daily messages but one from a little while ago; he’d asked for a list of books that centred on sexual identity or just anything with a bit of non-heterosexuality, and Lewis had asked for a few days to compile it.

_good morning h ! had a bit to drink last night but i looked up some of my favourites before we got started, so no worries about my drunk choices hahaha._

He’s listed about ten different titles underneath that, some novels and some more biographical and non-fictional, and Harry’s heart flutters again. He can buy things like this now, without the looming spectre of Holmes Chapel’s population looking over his shoulder. If he wants to sit under a tree and flip through a book called _Two Boys Kissing_ , he can do that. No more jumping and closing out of tabs on his phone when he hears footsteps, no more clearing his browsing history before letting his friends borrow his laptop.

He can _be_. He can grow. He can _live_.

Harry bounces to his feet quickly, filled with inspiration, with purpose, with vigour-

And then he runs to the bathroom, sliding to the space in front of the toilet just in time for his stomach to crawl its way out of his throat once more.

Harry rests his forehead on the toilet seat until he’s sure the nausea has passed, and then the scent of tea and warm bread draws him out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, where he finds two of his new flatmates, Leigh-Anne and Jade, looking similarly droopy. Jade’s sitting at the table, wrapped in what looks like the world’s fluffiest dressing gown and not much else, and Leigh’s at the stove, prodding at some eggs in a pan.

“Morning,” Harry rasps, and the girls murmur their greetings.

“Harry, love,” Leigh says after a moment, scraping at the pan with her spatula. “I know we’ve only known each other less than a day, but we shared a few moments last night and I think our relationship already has a good foundation.”

Right. “I… agree?” Harry says warily.

“Good,” Leigh says. “Then I think we’re good enough friends that I can tell you to put your pubes away at the table.”

Jade laughs throatily when Harry looks down and blushes, tugging his pants and jeans up a little. “Sorry,” he says, and Jade waves it away.

“Nothing we didn’t see last night,” she says lecherously, and it’s an interesting look on her tiny, innocent face.

“Yes, I think our getting to know each other over drinks led to a deeper intimacy than we ever dreamed,” Leigh agrees dryly.

Harry drops his head to rest on the table. “Did I get naked?”

“You got naked,” Leigh confirms.

“You’re well fit though, mate,” Jade offers cheerfully. “Well done.”

Harry snorts. “Thanks.”

“What’s on the agenda for today, then?” Leigh asks. “Me ‘nd Jade ‘n maybe Ed are gonna go grab some lunch, and Ed’s got this Irish friend who can get us a free first round at the pub. You’re welcome to join.”

Harry’s stomach lurches at the thought of more alcohol. “Erm, maybe. I was actually going to go find a bookshop, I think.”

“Books for class?” Jade asks, setting aside her tea and grabbing her phone. “There’s a Waterstones not far from here.”

“Oh,” Harry says, his stomach turning for an entirely new reason. He’s ready to be brave and confident enough to stride right into the LGBT section of a major commercial bookstore, but… maybe not today. “Um.”

“If you don’t mind waiting a day, I need to run there as well,” Leigh offers. That sounds even worse, Harry’s brand new friend tagging along while he sets himself up to have a crisis in a public space. “There’s one book I’m missing for my course, the place I work at doesn’t really sell school books.”

“Where do you work?” Harry asks.

“This little place called Grimshaw’s,” Leigh says brightly, or as brightly someone still wearing last night’s eyeliner can be. “It’s really great, and locally owned so the owner tries to help out any uni students that need work.”

“Cool,” Harry says. “Where’s that?”

“Not far. I’ll text you the address,” Leigh says, turning back to the eggs and stabbing at them with her spatula. Then, her voice goes high, like a bad attempt at sounding like her usual self. “There’s a really great LGBT book section there, too.”

Harry, who’d been stealing a sip from Jade’s mug, sputters tea all over the table.

Leigh continues determinedly, like she can’t hear Harry having respiratory failure right behind her. “Yeah, the owner’s son is openly gay, so he keeps a section stocked for anyone looking for help.”

“Oh my God,” Harry says weakly when he realises. “I didn’t just get naked last night, did I.”

Jade reaches over and pats his hand. “No, you didn’t.” Harry groans and drops his head again. “But we had a very illuminating chat and we are both here to help you get your first boyfriend.”

Leigh nods enthusiastically. “Yes, we are! I even have some people in mind—there’s one boy, he works with me at the shop-”

“No, no,” Harry says, waving his hands. “No set ups, no blind dates. I just need to, to _be_ , for a while, I think. I’ve never even tried chatting up,” he swallows, breathes out through his nose, “chatting up a guy, but I want to try. I’m not middle aged and desperately alone, I’m just… new.”

“A baby gay,” Jade says, patting his hand again. “Good for you, Harry.”

“Right,” Harry says, getting to his feet. “So I, a baby gay, am going out in the world. To be gay. And to buy books. Gay books.”

Jade and Leigh cheer, and Harry straightens his shoulders like he’s off to war. He’s almost to the flat’s front door when Jade calls, “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“A shirt, maybe? And your jeans are still unzipped, love.”

Right.

Ten minutes later, Harry is fully clothed, fully zipped, his camera is thumping a beat against his chest with every step, his stomach has mostly stopped trying to evacuate his body, and the directions to Grimshaw’s are displayed on his phone. He finds it easily, a cute shop tucked between a bakery and a vintage clothing shop.

He steels himself, his hand sweaty around his phone, Lou’s list of book recommendations displayed on the screen. One deep breath, one more, and he pushes the door open.

A tinkling bell over his head announces his arrival.

___

 

It’s a slow day at the bookshop, so Louis and Zayn are using the down time wisely and being productive.

Well. They’re keeping themselves entertained, anyway.

“Quiet on the court,” Louis calls, wiggling his bum as he prepares for the serve. “I need absolute silence. Total quiet.”

“We’re the only two here, Louis,” Zayn says patiently. “And you’re the one making all the noise.”

“ _Quiet on the court_ ,” Louis repeats, louder.

“Where’d you even get a tennis racket?” Zayn asks.

It had been sticking out of a bin Louis had passed on his way into work—a perfectly good tennis racket, and someone was just going to _throw it away!_ What a waste, honestly—but he doesn’t think Zayn will want to play anymore if he finds out that Louis’d had to rinse some old cheese off the handle. “ _Quiet_ ,” Louis yells, “on the _court_.”

Louis serves, tossing their makeshift paper tennis ball into the air and swinging mightily, and he only realises he missed the ball completely when Zayn collapses in laughter against the nearest shelf. The only solution to get him to stop is, naturally, to pummel him with the rubbish-covered tennis racket until he gives up. Louis is in the middle of rubbing the germy strings of the racket all over Zayn’s hair while Zayn bellows curses at him for it when the bell over the door chimes, letting them know a customer has arrived and that their shenanigans have to pause for a moment.

“Welcome to Grimshaw’s,” Louis calls over his shoulder without turning around, hoping it's not Nick or his dad on the one occasion that he and Zayn aren't being model employees.

(Well. Okay. There was the time they locked the shop up early and tried to hotbox the place before they realised they'd left a window open. Or the time Louis knocked over a shelf of graphic novels trying to recreate a scene from _Tarzan_. Or the time Louis held an impromptu sex education lesson when he caught some thirteen year olds giggling over female reproductive organs in some human anatomy books, which, he thought, was very progressive and cool of him, until they ran home and told their mums, who weren't as happy.

Still, most of the time Louis and Zayn are the top of the list for Employee of the Month every single go round. As long as you don't count Liam. Or Niall. Or Leigh, even if she’s only been here a short while. Or Nick, who only works when someone's called in sick.

Anyway.)

It isn't Nick who enters the shop, though, or his dad; whoever it is answers Louis’ greeting with a “Right, erm. Thanks,” in a deep, slow voice Louis’ never heard before. When there’s no follow up of _why are you assaulting that guy with a tennis racket_ , Louis assumes he and Zayn are in the clear.

It's quiet for a few minutes after that—the customer is wandering through the shelves in the deepest corner off to the left of Louis’ spot behind the till, and Zayn had immediately slipped away from Louis when he stopped paying attention to him, probably escaping to the employee bathroom to fix his hair.

With the shop back to being its typical still, quiet state, Louis slides his phone out of his pocket and checks his Tumblr really quickly: H didn't send another message after Louis posted his recommended reading list this morning (H had said he wanted to explore his newfound freedom intellectually, not just sexually; if it had been anyone else Louis would have rolled his eyes until they fell right out of his head, but since it was H he had to physically stop himself from outright swooning at his adorable internet pen pal), but Louis keeps checking for one just in case.

Then again, it was H’s very first day in his brand new halls yesterday—he'd probably spent the whole time getting to know his flatmates and acquainting himself with uni life, not worried about checking up on the blogger he talks to occasionally. Louis isn’t jealous. He’s just, you know. He frets.

“You're a dick,” grumbles Zayn when he returns from the bathroom, his quiff back in place. Louis grins, reaching for the tennis racket to mess it up again, when Zayn tilts his head to the side consideringly. “Hear that?”

Louis pauses, unable to hear anything but himself and Zayn and the muted hum of traffic outside the shop’s windows. “Hear what?”

“Exactly,” Zayn says. “Don't we have a customer?”

Oh, right. Louis has a suspicion of where the guy went to hide, but just in case…

Louis clears his throat. “Need help finding anything?” he calls toward the furthest quarter of the shop.  

“No!” comes the customer’s voice, only this time it’s more squeaky and panicked than deep and drawling. “No, I’m good! Thanks!”

Suspicion confirmed, Louis turns and exchanges a knowing grin with Zayn, and then they both go back to not-so-covertly checking their phones under the counter. Soon, though, it’s been fifteen minutes without a peep or even a rustle of movement from between the shelves, and Louis wonders if they’ve got a fainter on their hands, or maybe one of those who tries to read the whole book in the shop without paying for it. When the twenty minute mark passes, Louis puts his phone down, his interest fully piqued.

“Think he’s alive?” he whispers to Zayn, who also locks his phone and looks up.

“Dunno,” he whispers back. He moves up onto his tiptoes like that’ll help him peer past the ten foot tall bookshelves. “Should we check?”

The bell over the door rings and makes them both jump in surprise, but it’s only Liam, who grins and waves.

“Hello, boys,” he says, fist-bumping Louis and leaning over to greet Zayn with a quick kiss. His voice is loud in the oppressive silence of the shop, and Louis throws the makeshift paper tennis ball from earlier at him to shut him up. Liam gets there after a moment, lowering his voice to a whisper too. “What are we whispering for?”

“Got a lost one,” Zayn says, nodding toward the back section.

“Ah,” Liam says, his brow furrowed in concern.

When Nick Grimshaw was twelve years old, he came out to his parents as gay. The Grimshaws, who were (and still are) lovely people, were incredibly support of Nick, but a little fumbling and unaware of the proper etiquette on how to deal with his newly-announced identity. Unfamiliar with the existence of organisations like FFLAG and support groups and online resources, Nick’s parents showed their support in the only ways they knew how: Nick’s mum knitted him a sweater with rainbow sleeves (which Nick digs out for Pride every year, now an annual tradition Louis looks forward to almost as much as the parade, and one day he will successfully convince Nick to relinquish the sweater so he can have it), and his dad immediately cleared out a huge space in his bookshop and filled it with books to help his son, and himself, if they ever had questions about queer culture or history.

It’s a _thing_ now—Nick, his dad, and now Louis all work to keep Grimshaw’s stocked and up-to-date with LGBT novels and nonfiction for anyone who might benefit from such a selection. While they don’t necessarily stick it on the website or tout it as the official shop motto, word of mouth is good enough to keep people in the know: you want books about queer people? You go to Grimshaw’s.

Louis loves it, and he loves giving recommendations or critiques to anyone who asks, but it’s not always a joyous experience for everyone who walks in the door and heads straight for the section with the rainbow header. The Grimshaw’s staff has dealt with all types of people who handle being faced with blatant queer themes in all sorts of ways—one of the most common is the angry parent trying to conceal their homophobia behind concern, telling the employees that they shouldn’t display _that sort of material_ in plain view where _children_ can see, like it’s porn that should be hidden away. What’s even worse than those parents, though, are the kids they sometimes have with them that had dragged those parents to that section to begin with; one look, and Louis can usually tell are deeply affected by hearing their mothers or fathers or guardians speaking about their identities like they’re wrong or different. (Louis usually tries to slip them a piece of paper with his blog name without the parents noticing, along with an easy _if you ever have questions_. It’s not the safest route to take, but Louis knows that panic of finding someone, anyone to talk to, and he couldn’t stand it if he didn’t try to help.)

There are others, too. There are the people who panic because they read something that they accidentally like and have moral crises right there between the shelves, there are the people who try to smuggle the books out under their jackets so they don’t have to be seen buying them. There are the confident ones, people like Liam and Nick who accepted who they were between one breath and the next and would have no issue striding towards the rainbow-themed section while everyone looked on.

But, most of all, there are the quiet ones. The lost ones, Zayn called them once, and it was so fitting that the name stuck: they’re the ones who find the LGBT section and lose themselves among material they’d either never had access to before, or they were too scared to peruse. They sometimes linger for hours, some of them silently, some more bold, but all with the same look in their eye: the _I’ve found a place_ look, the _these people might understand_ one. That heady mix of terror and excitement.

It's been twenty-five minutes since the customer entered the shop and headed for the back corner and the inconspicuous LGBT section header; if there was ever such a thing as a textbook lost one, this person is it.

“Should…” Liam trails off, worrying at his lip. “Should we go back there?”

“No,” Zayn answers, decisive but quiet. “Let him be. We don’t close for hours, anyway.”

Louis knows he’s right, but.

Well, now he’s invested. He didn’t even get a good look at the person when they came in, which can tell a lot about just how that person’s going to react to the titles on the rainbow shelves: if they’re furtive and twitchy, they might lash out; if they duck their heads and avoid eye contact, they may be embarrassed or nervous. Besides, even if Louis has never been good at keeping his curiosity locked away, maybe he’s needed over there. Maybe this customer is one of the rare ones that freezes up when he reads a title or a book summary that might potentially apply to him: he’s met those customers before, and he’s had to walk his fair share through the anxiety attacks that followed. Or maybe this customer is just having a hard time deciding between two books and needs a second opinion? They won’t know unless someone goes to check. Right? Right.

He turns away from the corner and flicks his glance around the space behind the counter, looking for any excuse to-

Aha! Bingo. A box of assorted new arrivals that need to be shelved sits innocently nearby, a note from Niall resting on top that Louis had been planning on ignoring. He crumples the little piece of paper— _tommo u better put these away, i did 8 boxes u can do 1_ —and shifts some of the books aside until he finds a few that need to be shelved, coincidentally enough, right near the LGBT section.

“Louis,” Liam warns when Louis stands back up, toting an armful of books.

“Yes?” Louis asks innocently.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m doing my _job_ , Liam,” Louis sniffs. “I was going to leave these for you to do tomorrow, but I am a _good person_ and am going to ease your burden by stocking them right now. You’re welcome.”

“Why are you only shelving five books that are all from the sections in the same corner as the customer?” Zayn asks, like he doesn’t know the answer. “Just do all of them.”

“I’ll do those later,” Louis says. Liam’s grin drops into a frown.

“You’re not actually going to go bother this guy, are you?” he asks. Louis doesn’t answer, slipping out from behind the counter and dodging out of Liam's reach when he grabs for him. There's a hiss of _“Louis!”_ that he pretends not to hear, instead disappearing into the cooler, darker air between the tall bookshelves.

Louis creeps toward the shelves he needs, trying to muffle his footfalls as he approaches. He can hear the customer now; it doesn’t sound like he’s pacing, which is a good sign, more like he’s shifting from foot to foot. Subtle fluctuations of air that give proof of some kind of life between all the dead paper.

Louis quickly finds the place for the first book in his pile, a collection of Picasso prints and poetry; he tries to slot it silently into its spot while also peering through the spaces of the shelf for a glimpse of the mysterious customer. He puts another book into place and can see a flash of skin, the quick silver glimmer of what might be a necklace, but nothing more.

That’s fine, Louis is nothing if not persistent.

Louis has three books left in his hands, and he can’t hide in the photography books anymore. He aims for nonchalant as he steps around the corner of the bookshelf, catching his first glimpse of the customer lurking amongst the books for which he feels personally responsible.

His first thought is _oh no, he’s hot_.

His second thought is _oh no, he’s looking right at me_.

Louis averts his eyes and turns toward the left-hand shelf, his skin prickling as he sees the guy stiffen out of the corner of his eye while studying the books lining the opposite side. In his panic-filled attempt at looking like he was supposed to be there—and he _was_ , but tell that to his thundering pulse—Louis had only got a glimpse of the customer now trying to pretend he doesn’t see Louis as valiantly as Louis is pretending he doesn’t see him back.

But, Christ, one glimpse might have been enough. Louis had seen glossy curls peeking out from under a beanie, wide shoulders barely hidden by a white vest, skinny but strong legs clad in even skinnier jeans. But though that was all a sight to behold, one thing stuck out in Louis’ mind: clenched between fingers covered in rings and reddened spots that looked like bite marks on his knuckles were two books, their covers and titles hidden from Louis’ quick visual sweep.

Louis isn’t just curious anymore. He _burns_ to know what books Hot Guy is considering, whether he’s going for a queer romance or a sexual identity handbook or something else entirely. Is he looking for history or a relatable love story? Sad or happy? A call to action or a reflection on actions past? Maybe they aren’t even for him; in Louis’ head, that doesn’t matter.

He has to know. He can’t _not_ know.

Louis creeps closer to Hot Guy, bringing his sixth form drama classes back into play as he pretends to hunt for the resting place of one of his books, while also looking over his shoulder every few feet to see if the titles in Hot Guy’s hands are any clearer. They aren’t, unfortunately, but that does give Louis ample opportunity to study the hands in question—they’re large, long fingered and elegant, and they’re also gripping the books so tightly his knuckles are edging out of white territory and into purple.

Louis slides the second book into a random spot on the shelves; he’ll find it later and put it in the correct place, but right now he’s on a mission.

Louis is so busy inching forward and dreaming up scenarios where this attractive stranger turns around and finds a reason to snog him up against the quiet books that he doesn’t realise how close he’s crept; doesn’t realise, that is, until he’s stretching onto his tiptoes to see over Hot Guy’s shoulder and his feet tangle up, sending Louis pitching forward and faceplanting right into Hot Guy’s bicep, the book in his hands dropping with a dramatic thud to the carpeted floor.  

“Oh, shit!” Hot Guy says, dropping his books as well and pinwheeling his arms, managing to grab Louis’ upper arms and keep him upright just before he falls. He hauls Louis up until they’re face to face, both breathing like they ran a few miles to get to this exact spot.

“Sorry,” Louis breathes. Clears his throat. Tries not to get distracted by _green, green, green_. Fails miserably at not getting distracted. “Sorry,” he repeats.

“No, I’m sorry,” the guy says earnestly. His voice is somehow deeper up close, which seems scientifically impossible. Or maybe deeper isn’t the right word: rumblier, maybe. Rockier. Gravelled but smooth.

They’re still face to face, and very, _very_ close. There’s bits of gold flecked in Hot Guy’s eyes. Louis wonders what Hot Guy sees in his eyes. (Hopes it’s something worth looking at.) “What are you sorry for?”

“Erm,” Hot Guy says. He releases one of Louis’ biceps, scrubs that hand over the back of his neck as he grins ruefully. “Nothing, I guess.” His grin ticks up on one side, turning almost cheeky. Flirty, if Louis didn’t know better. “It wasn’t really my fault, was it?”

“Why, I _never_ ,” Louis says in faux affront, but his own grin ruins it. He and the stranger smile at each other a little longer before Louis remembers, oh, right, he’s at work and this is a customer he’s currently ogling. Right. Bad. “Uh, sorry,” he says again, stepping back a little. (Not too much; Hot Guy’s hands are still trying to hold him in place, even if that doesn’t seem to be a conscious decision.) Louis bends down and picks up the books the guy had dropped to the floor, turning them over so the titles face up. “I’ll let you get back to...” he reads the titles again; one is a Robert Mapplethorpe photography collection, the other is-

”Oh,” Louis says dumbly, staring at the cover. “I love this book.”

The black, white, and pink cover of _The Velvet Rage_ is both familiar and strange: Louis’ copy is lovingly beaten, the cover torn, sticky notes exploding out of the book’s pages with notes and references to things learned in his coursework. It’s strange to see a version of it that hasn’t been read to pieces; Louis is so busy being stunned it takes a moment for him to snap out of it and realise the guy next to him is lock-kneed, like he’s contemplating running away. But when Louis looks up and meets Hot Guy’s eye, he doesn’t run. He looks terrified, but he stays where he is. “Yeah?” he asks after a moment.

“Yeah,” Louis confirms faintly, handing the two books back to him. “This is-” Overwhelming. Destiny. Fate. Something big. “Yeah. It’s one of my favourites. Just recommended it to a friend of mine, actually.”

“Oh,” the guy says. “Someone recommended it to me, too. Great minds, I s’pose.” He bends and picks up the book Louis had been trying to shelve. “And I’ll let you get back to, um.”

Louis looks down at the book he’d been carrying and feels himself flush an immediate, bright red. “No,” he says, snatching back the new copy of _The Ins and Outs of Gay Sex_. “No, no,” he stammers, and Hot Guy’s grin grows. “No. I work here, I was just putting this away,” he explains. Is his face on fire? It feels like it’s on fire. “No,” he says one more time.

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” the guy says, glib as ever, and Louis smacks him with the gay sex guide.

Then realises he just hit a customer.

“Oh my God,” he says, but Hot Guy is still grinning widely, so he goes with it. “No,” he tries one more time. “I don’t need this.”

“Oh,” says the guy. And then again, his smirk falling, “Oh.”

“No,” Louis repeats, feeling ridiculous. “God, okay. No, I don’t need this, ‘cause, like. I already know how. I don’t need a how-to guide. I’m good. I’ve got it. I-” _Shut up!_ his brain is screaming as the guy’s smile reappears. _Enough!_ “No.”

This is the least smooth Louis has ever been. Luckily it’s just in front of a _super hot dude_ instead of someone who, maybe, Louis might just want to date. That would be embarrassing. _Christ_.

“I’ll just,” he says, gesturing to the book, “put this away.” He reads the title and looks up at the shelf, realising in a split second that it’s supposed to go up at the very top. Right. He usually has a stepladder for things like this, but Hot Guy is still watching and Louis just can’t make himself go get the brightly painted ladder from Nick’s childhood that they keep in the back for days when Louis is restocking. There’s been a lot of embarrassment in Louis’ life up to this point, but that might take the cake.

Dignity preserved but job unfinished, Louis stretches his arm as high as it will go and stands on the tips of his toes. However, he still can’t reach the top shelf, and he’s just about to give up and hide in the bathroom for the rest of eternity when a warmth that feels a lot like a broad chest presses against his shoulder blades.  

“Need help?” asks Hot Guy’s rumbly voice in Louis’ ear, and without waiting for an answer he slips the book from Louis’ fingers and slots it into place. He doesn’t step back when he’s done, and Louis turns slowly to find him closer than he’d been even after they’d collided. Hot Guy has four freckles on the right side of his jaw. Louis wants to bite them.

“Thanks,” Louis whispers. He’s swaying closer to the boy, caught on some invisible string. His hand is splayed across Hot Guy’s stomach, his skin warm through the cotton of his vest. The guy’s hands are braced on the shelf on either side of Louis’ head, his biceps flexing next to Louis’ face. He wants to bite those, too.

“You’re…” Hot Guy trails off, close enough that Louis can almost feel the word hit him, and maybe he was going to say _welcome_ , maybe he was going to say _an idiot_ , Louis doesn’t care. He’s being willingly crowded up against a bookshelf by a boy who reads about the effects of society on marginalised identities and he’s never felt so weak in the knees. His head feels fuzzy, his blinks slower, his heart racing and sluggish at the same time. The air trapped in his lungs feels like liquified glitter.

Is it too much to ask  a complete stranger to strip him down and take him on the floor of his workplace a mere eight minutes after meeting? At this point, Louis is about to damn propriety and decorum to hell just to be able to reach out and _touch_.

“Louis, are you-” comes Liam’s voice from very, very far away. “Oh, um.”

It takes a minute, a long minute in which Hot Guy continues to stare and Louis and Louis stares right back, but eventually-

“Shit, shit,” says Hot Guy, scrambling back. “Sorry.”

Louis, slumped against the shelf like Hot Guy took his centre of gravity with him, says, “No, sorry, I’m sorry.”

Zayn and Liam, both standing at the end of the aisle and looking as though Christmas collided with their birthdays and rolled itself into one big holiday right here in September, are watching the scene with poorly hidden glee. Zayn’s eyebrows have risen so high they’ve disappeared behind the floppy front of his hair. Liam’s lips are twitching like he’s biting back hysterics. Louis hates them both with the fervour of a thousand fiery suns.

“We thought we ought to check on you,” Liam says innocently. Louis is going to throw something at him. Maybe it’ll be _The Ins and Outs of Gay Sex_. “We thought we heard your dulcet screech.”

“Didn’t realize you were so busy, though,” Zayn continues, not even bothering to hide the width of his grin. “We’ll let you two get back to... whatever you were in the middle of.”

This would be the part where Louis should have a really amazing comeback, but all he can do is fishmouth in surprise.

“I’m taking Z to lunch, Tommo!” Liam calls, wrapping his arm around Zayn’s shoulders and pulling him away. They both grin back at him in a way that promises merciless amounts of teasing at a later date. “Be back soon.”

Louis still can’t come up with any sort of defence, and they’re even being lenient: if he’d caught either of them in the same position, he wouldn’t have saved the ridicule for when the hot stranger was gone, would have gleefully ripped them to pieces in front of their new crush.

Before Louis can say something, anything, they’re turning and leaving, but the silence of the shop means their echoing laughter as they walk out the door is as clear as if they were still standing a few feet away.

Right. Okay.

Hot Guy is as far from Louis as the narrow aisle between shelves will allow, his back against the books and a good four feet of space between them. His chest is rising and falling like he can’t quite breathe, and Louis knows exactly how he feels. But this isn’t going to be awkward. Louis isn’t going to _let_ this be awkward.

“I can finish you off if you’re done shopping?” he offers weakly.

Hot Guy quirks an eyebrow back at Louis and Louis reruns that sentence through his head, and then he gives up on any chance of this all ending with Louis  owning a shred of dignity.

“God,” he says out loud, almost in wonder. Is this what an existential crisis feels like? “This is the lowest point of my life. I’m so happy I could share this with you, random stranger.”

The guy studies him for a long moment, then smiles, and it’s the most breathtaking one yet. Somehow, that makes it worse. “The name’s Harry,” he says, and some small piece of Louis that can still feel hope perks up. A name to put to that gorgeous face! Maybe the day’s not a waste after all. “And don’t worry. I was- I was nervous, coming in here. But you’ve helped.”

“By embarrassing myself beyond belief?”

“By not acting like something’s wrong with me.”

Oh. Oh, God.

The guy’s white knuckled grip on the books makes a little bit more sense now.

“Nothing’s wrong with you, Harry,” Louis promises. “Nothing at all.”

Harry swallows, nods. “Thanks.”

Harry follows Louis wordlessly to the till and stacks the two books on the counter, pulls out his wallet. Louis takes his cash and counts his change and their eyes keep meeting and skittering away. It feels like it’s been an age and a half since Harry entered the shop, and like Louis’ whole world was somehow flipped on its head the moment the bell over the door announced the boy’s arrival.

“How’d you hear about us, anyway?” Louis asks as the old machine slowly prints Harry’s receipt.

“My new flatmate works here, apparently?” Harry answers, though he doesn’t sound sure about it. “Leigh-Anne?”

“You live with Leigh?” Louis asks.

“As of yesterday, yeah,” Harry grins. “Still sort of new, but it’s all been good so far.”

“Leigh’s amazing,”  Louis promises. The receipt finishes printing and Louis stuffs it into the bag with Harry’s books. “It was nice to meet you, Harry.”

Harry smiles, a tinge bashfully. “Nice to meet you, too…”

“Louis.”

The smile grows. “Nice to meet you, Louis.”

Harry walks out the door and disappears around the corner, and Louis hopes beyond hope he gets a second chance at a first impression.

___

 

 **_Anonymous said: Hiii_ ** **_Lewis_** ** _!! Day two of uni life was amazing!!!! My flatmates are amazing, the city is amazing, everything’s amazing! Spent the morning wandering around and running some errands. I picked up one of the books you recommended! Really excited to read it. And…… I think I met someone?? A boy someone. Maybe not, but it felt like it. Trying not to get my hopes too high, but, fingers crossed .x_ **

_h!!! this all sounds incredible, this is it !! your new life !! tell me about your flatmates, are they the wild types or are they chill? did you take your camera exploring with you ? i know you love documenting big moments . what book did you get? do you like it so far?_

_and it’s so funny you say that about a potential new boy, because i think i met one too. maybe we’ll both be lucky in love this year, eh ?? fingers crossed for the both of us, babe . tell me about him! what do the kids say these days - is he dreamy ?_

_Tagged: #anon, #h_

 

 

**_Anonymous said: Hiii again. About to go out to dinner with the flatmates. They aren’t really wild or chill? Or maybe they’re all both in small doses. One’s doing fashion design, one’s studying English, and one’s a ginger bloke who’s the best musician I’ve ever heard, and we all get along really well so far. I’ll let you know about the book when I’m done with it, I want to wrap my head around it first. And the boy… dreamy is a good word for him, yeah .x_ **

_i’m heading out tonight as well, have a drink for me and i’ll have one for you. keep those flatmates in line !  i’m excited to hear your bookish thoughts!!_

_god i feel like i’m supposed to be giving you the big brother talk or summat, now that you’ve potentially got a boy. keep yourself safe, yeah? and don’t change who you are to fit what this boy wants._

_and, most importantly, don’t forget about me when you’re out having your fairytale romance, alright?_

_Tagged: #anon, #h_

 

 

 **_Anonymous said: Hiii. Could never forget about you,_ ** **_Lewis_** ** _. Don’t ever worry about that .x_ **

_good. you’re pretty unforgettable yourself, h._

_Tagged: #anon, #h_

___

 

If there’s one thing Harry was always good at before, it was playing cool. He was always enthusiastic about his passions, music and photography and art and friends, but with the girls he dated before uni it was always easy to stay aloof. Friendly, but distant. It made it easier to end relationships he knew would never blossom into anything more when he was removed from it all.

It’s been six days days since Harry met a boy named Louis in a bookshop, and all his cool has been tossed out the window.

It was such a short interaction, in the grand scheme of things. A few minutes between the bookshelves, and that was it. But Harry has rewound that memory in his head over and over like a worry stone, rubbing over the rough edges until they became smooth. Bright eyes and a brighter smile follow Harry into sleep at night, a warm laugh is the first sound he thinks of in the morning.

Harry has no idea what he’s doing; he didn’t really expect to bump into someone like Louis on his first real day out of Holmes Chapel. He thought he’d have to go through a phase of awkward dates with ill-matched people, maybe a few one night stands with boys whose names he’d not feel bothered to learn; he never thought that he’d literally bump into someone who flipped his entire world upside down with one simple trip over his own feet.

Harry isn’t sure whether he wants to be Louis or be with him more, honestly, but what he does know is that he wants to be around Louis _all the time_.

There’s a monthly calendar hanging on the fridge in the flat, which Jade insisted that they all use to write in their class and work schedules as well as to plan out regular flatmate dinners (“So we know that if you’re supposed to be home and you’re not at home, you’ve probably been murdered and we need to go look for your body,” she’d said brightly. Harry seemed to be the only one concerned with this train of thought). Jade writes in the days she has writing workshops and Ed scribbles in the times of the guitar lessons he gives to pay for food and beer, and Harry notes the weekends he plans on going back to Holmes Chapel for photography gigs, and Leigh writes her schedule for Grimshaw’s along with who she’s working with.

And the fact that today she works with Louis has nothing to do with the reason why Harry has decided to tag along.

Really.

The last time Harry had seen Louis, he’d been stuttery and bright-eyed, funny and sweet and smart and self-deprecating. Harry has the briefest memory of others being there in the shop, two guys, but his attention had been caught so fully by Louis that he doesn’t remember details about them. All that he remembers is every word out of Louis’ mouth, every brush of his fingers through his fringe, and the quiet ambiance of the shop around them as they fumbled their way through a first meeting.

When Harry follows Leigh into Grimshaw’s today, it’s a little different than the calm atmosphere he remembers. Louis is standing on the countertop, laughing maniacally as he throws paperback books at two other people dodging between the bookshelves. There’s a high, constant cackle from one of the runners, the other yelling a mix of curses and Louis’ name.

The bell over the door announces Leigh and Harry’s entrance, and the noise stops for a minute.

“Leigh!” Louis cheers, looking as though he means to continue with the book throwing and that he expects Leigh to join the fun. Then he looks past her and his eyes widen. “Harry?”

“Erm,” Harry says, feeling the smile pull at the corners of his mouth. “Hey, Louis.”

“Tommo!” yells a voice from among the books. “Is it safe to come out? Why’ve you stopped?”

“Hi, Niall!” Leigh calls, and the owner of the voice emerges, peeking around the corner to make sure it isn’t a trap before stepping out fully. He’s a vaguely familiar looking guy, blonde and bouncy and grinning.

“Hello, Leigh,” Niall says, “and Leigh’s friend.”

“Harry.” Then it clicks. “You’re friends with Ed, right?”

Niall’s grin widens. “Yeah, me ‘n Ed go way back.”

“Nice,” Harry says. “He and Leigh are two of my flatmates.”

“Oh!” Niall says, pointing like something’s just clicked in his own head. “Are you the one who’s always naked? Ed talks about you all the time, mate. Good to put a face to the nudist reputation.”

“Er-”

“Who’s naked?” says the other person hiding in the bookshelves. He smirks when he steps out and sees Harry, and Harry vaguely remembers seeing that grin when he’d been chest to chest with Louis somewhere to the left of where he’s currently standing. “Ah, shoulda known. We can give you two a minute alone if you need it, Lou.”

“Shut up, Zayn,” Louis says automatically. He’s still got one arm cocked back and ready to release the book in his hand, but his shoulders are slumped like he’s forgotten his makeshift projectiles and he hasn’t looked away from Harry at all. Harry, whose face feels warm from all of Louis’ attention, swallows and meets his eyes once more. The look at each other for a long moment, then Louis jolts. “Oh! Harry. I found something else you might like.”

He hops off the counter and disappears from view, only the curve of his back visible as he rifles around for something. Harry steps closer and Louis reappears, his hair mussed and his cheeks pink. “Here,” he says, thrusting a book forward; Harry takes it and thumbs at the title, the front cover of _The Naked Civil Servant_ faded and worn like it’s been well loved and well read. Louis clears his throat. “This is my copy, so I’ve sort of written all over it. But I think you’ll like it.”

It’s another of the suggestions from Lewis' list, so Harry’s sure he will. “Thanks,” he says, and this time when he and Louis smile at each other, they don’t look away or change the subject.

Harry thinks he hears Leigh fake-retching behind them, but he doesn’t care.

___

 

 **_Anonymous said: God,_ ** **_Lewis_** ** _, I don’t even know how to describe him! He’s so much better than anyone I could’ve ever dreamed up, and it’s even better because he’s real. Sometimes I spend the whole time we’re together thinking “It can’t be this easy, something’s got to fuck it up” and I don’t know if I expect it to be me that ruins it or him .x_ **

_you can’t think that way babe !! let it be good without thinking of the consequences or the what ifs. and why would you fuck it up? you’re perfect, you know that._

_Tagged: #anon, #h_

 

 

 **_Anonymous said: I don’t know,_ ** **_L_** ** _. You’re the only real constant in my life that actually knows all of me. What if he finds out something about me that makes him change his mind? .x_ **

_if i know all of you, then i can confidently say that there’s nothing about you that should scare any decent guy off. if he runs, it’s his fault, not yours._

_h babe i mean this with all my heart. you are one of the best parts of my days. there’s nothing that makes me as happy as your messages. i respect that you want to keep your online life away from your real life, but i’d consider it a privilege to get to know you in person._

_if he doesn’t fall in love with you, it’s his fault, and there might be something wrong with him._

_Tagged: #anon, #h_

 

 

**_Anonymous said: Okay. You’re right. It’s just scary to feel this much so fast .x_ **

_i’m always right :)_

_but i definitely know what you mean .  we’re in this together, yeah?_

_Tagged: #anon, #h_

___

 

Uni has officially started, which means things at Grimshaw’s settle into a rhythm that the summer hols just don’t allow. A regular schedule is set up at the shop around everyone’s courses and out-of-class work, and so a Tuesday afternoon in October finds Louis flipping through his textbooks and trying to concentrate on the words in front of him instead of checking the time on his phone every three to five minutes.

The sun is setting through the front shop windows when the bell over the door rings and someone enters the shop.

“Welcome to Grimshaw’s,” Louis calls, twirling a pen in his hand and rereading the same sentence for the eighth time.

“Hey, Louis.”

Louis’ head snaps up so fast his neck aches. “Harry!”

Harry fidgets, biting his lip. The light outside frames him like a halo. “I’ve got some reading I want to get finished, but Ed’s got friends over at the flat. Can I…”

“Sure,” Louis agrees immediately, his mouth dry. “There’s, uh, not really anywhere to sit, but you’re welcome to make yourself comfortable.” Harry surveys the place and ends up settling against the end of the shelf closest to the counter, carefully taking his books and notebooks and pens out and arranging them around himself, settling in like he’s nesting.

The first fifteen minutes are spent in silence, pretending they’re still doing their coursework. After that, they stop even trying to pretend, and the rest of Louis’ shift is spent talking about anything that comes to mind.

___

 

 **_Anonymous said: Hiii_ ** **_Lewis_** ** _. How’s your day? I spent it with the boy again, felt like I couldn’t breathe the whole time we were in the same room. Then again, maybe that’s just what happens when I talk to guys, because the I go through the same thing every time I send you a message. ;) .x_ **

_my day was good ! quiet, but good. spent a little while with my boy as well_

_maybe the losing your breath thing is contagious, cos it deffo happens to me when i get your messages too_

_Tagged: #anon, #h_

___

 

The camera is a familiar weight in Harry’s hands as he crouches, gets the perfect angle on a spiralling swirl of dust motes visible in the cutting line of a beam of late autumn sunlight. The faded gold of the title on the book’s spine catches the light and sparkles like its life is renewed.

There are actually customers in the bookshop today, so Harry is letting Louis do his job instead of pestering him like usual. He can hear Louis’ warm voice through the cosy air of the shop, as familiar as the sound of the bell over the door.

Harry steps quietly around a man perusing the fantasy section and peeks around the corner: Louis is ringing up a mum and her daughter, the little girl probably no more than five or six. She’s clutching a book to her chest, her mother trying to coax her into handing it to Louis so he can scan it.

“Is that _The Velveteen Rabbit_?” Louis asks her, his voice going expressive and soft. When the girl nods, he smiles. “My sisters love that book. I read it for them every time I go home.”

“Really?” the little girl asks, and Louis nods seriously.

“Yes, it’s a very important part of my visits. I’m sure you’ll love it too, but you have to let me scan it for just a moment before you can take it home.”

The little girl thinks this over, and then nods and carefully hands Louis her book. He scans it and immediately hands it back to her, his whole face soft with tenderness.

Harry snaps a picture, needing to save that expression to film forever.

___

 

**_Anonymous said: I don’t want to tell him all the not fun stuff I went through back home. What if he doesn’t want to hear it?.x_ **

_if he’s worth it at all, and if he really cares about you, he wants to know._

_i’ve got the opposite problem, i can’t get my boy to open up at all. i wish he would share, and i’m sure your boy feels the same way_

_Tagged: #anon, #h_

 

 

**_Anonymous said: I’m running out of excuses to see him .x_ **

_then stop making excuses, h._

_Tagged: #anon, #h, #go get him babe_

___

 

“No. Absolutely not.”

Harry’s laugh is loud from the LGBT section, where he’s browsing the new arrivals he helped Louis shelve just a few minutes ago. “Why not?”

“Why not?” Louis asks, scandalised. “Because Spiderman is an _actual_ superhero. Iron Man is just a smart guy with too much money on his hands.”

Harry laughs again, and Louis grins to himself as he surreptitiously tries to check his phone under the counter, refreshing his Tumblr app and checking for a new message from H every few minutes. He’s been getting them more and more recently, their conversations stretching throughout the day where even a few weeks ago, they only talked maybe once a day. It’s a welcome change, because when H messages him, he can talk more about the potential developments in his own love life.

Which, well, are slow going, but something, at least.  

“But Iron Man is a superhero,” Harry points out after a quiet moment. His voice is moving, like he’s wandering, and Louis can just picture it, the way his leather boots scuff against the floor, his fingers trailing along the book spines. “Like it or not, that’s what he is. Everyone knows that.”

“Well,” Louis says, and he doesn’t hear the bell over the door tinkle because he’s following that with, “then everyone is wrong!”

“Are you yelling at customers now? Is that what we’ve stooped to?” says a new voice, and Louis panics and drops his phone, the metal against wood sound obvious in the quiet shop. Nick Grimshaw grins from the doorway, accompanied by a swirl of winter air. “Gotcha.”

“God, Nick,” Louis says, putting a hand over his heart, which is beating rapidly. “I thought you were your dad and I was about to be fired.”

“Should that matter? You’re still abusing the income,” Nick says, his eyebrow raised.

“If it helps,” says Harry, materialising from between the shelves carrying a handful of books and grinning cheerfully, “I give it back as good as I take it.”

Louis watches as Nick’s spine straightens, his hip popped out almost instinctively. “ _Hello_. Louis’ been hiding his cute friends again, I see. I’m Nick Grimshaw.”

Harry flickers a cheeky wink to Louis before focusing back on Nick. “Nick Grimshaw, as in Grimshaw’s?”

“One and the same, love,” Nick says, voice lazy and curling.

Louis snorts. “Quit flirting, the both of you. Nick, you aren’t that important. Harry, are you buying those or adding them to your wishlist?”

“The wishlist, please,” Harry says, smiling brightly as he hands over his new findings. Louis rolls his eyes but smiles, taking the books from Harry and pulling out the sheet of notebook paper already half-filled with books Harry plans to buy as soon as he finds a job of his own. “Let me know when you’re done, and I’ll come get them and put them away.”

“Sorry, Tommo,” says Nick as Harry meanders away again between the shelves. “Didn’t realise you’d marked your territory there.”

“I haven’t. He’s not my anything,” Louis argues, writing out the last new title for Harry’s list. “Hazza! Come put these away.”

“Sure,” Nick says, but he doesn’t sound like he believes Louis one bit.

“He’s not,” Louis tries again. “We’re-”

“Lou,” Harry interrupts, startling Louis and making him jump. “Can I borrow your jacket? I’m cold.”

“Course, babe,” Louis agrees immediately. Harry grins and rubs his knuckles along Louis’ upper arm in thanks, then shrugs on Louis’ denim jacket, which is just oversized enough that it fits Harry perfectly.

When he disappears again, Louis turns back to find Nick watching him, looking supremely amused. “What were you saying?”

“He doesn’t-” Louis tries, “we aren’t- it’s not- it’s just not like that.”

“Okay,” Nick agrees easily. “But do you want it to be?”

Louis still doesn’t have an answer for him when Harry hops up on the counter a few minutes later, chattering with Nick about all sorts of things while Louis’ head buzzes.

___

 

**_Anonymous said: hi! i’m new to your blog, but i noticed you talk to your H anon almost constantly. do you know each other in real life? is that your boyfriend?_ **

_welcome to the thunderdome :)_

_no, i don’t know h in real life. wish i did, but things don’t always work out like that, and he needs tumblr to be a space separate from his real life. and that’s fine_

_and no, he’s not my boyfriend either_

_Tagged: #anon_

 

 

**_Anonymous said: do u not want a bf_ **

_idk really. haven’t dated anyone in a while, just haven’t really met anyone i clicked with for a long time._

_well, that’s not totally true. there’s someone… and he’s gorgeous and funny and so sweet, but he won’t open up to me. he doesn’t have to tell me his deepest darkest secrets, but i know from the way he talks and acts sometimes that he’s got something hidden away and just doesn’t trust me enough to tell me. i have a deeper emotional connection with my h anon than i do with this guy i see every day_

_Tagged: #anon, #then again, #maybe using h as an example isn’t the best idea, #we’ve never met and we don’t even know each others names, #but we’re incredibly codependent_

 

 

 **_Anonymous said: Hii_ ** **_Lewis_** ** _. Maybe your real life boy can’t open up because he’s scared you’ll judge him for not being confident in himself, or maybe he thinks you won’t be able to accept whatever he’s been through. Not that you’re like that! But maybe he hasn’t realised that yet. You seem like the type who made coming out look really easy even if it wasn’t, and maybe that’s intimidating to him. Your boy sounds like me, I’m trying to work past my own fears so I can talk to my boy without feeling like i’m laying myself open .x_ **

_so what you’re saying is i should open up to him first, to prove i understand that life is shit sometimes?_

_well, at least if the emotional intimacy doesn’t work for our real life relationships, we’ll always have each other_

_Tagged: #anon, #h_

___

 

It’s late, and Harry’s drunk. Cars passing on the street outside are throwing reflections of headlights through gaps in Harry’s curtains and across his ceiling. His vision spins and so do his thoughts.

A little over three months ago, Harry stumbled into a bookshop on the recommendation of a friend and had his life turned inside out by a boy with blue blue eyes and the brightest laugh. It was like his life had decided he’d gone through enough just to get to uni, and to reward him for his persistence he got to meet Louis Tomlinson.

It’s a crush, Harry knows this, but it feels heavier than that. Like it’s more than the butterflies Harry gets from thinking about football players and handsome actors and David at the party when he was sixteen who gave him his first kiss. It’s not fleeting and fun, it’s fiery and fierce, demanding his attention, tying his veins into knots. It’s the easiest thing and the world to slip into familiarity with Louis, and it’s the most difficult thing in the world when he has to say goodbye.

Maybe it’s more than a crush. Maybe it’s that word hovering around the back of his mind, the four little letters that he throws around easily when it comes to his flatmates and his friends at the bookshop and some of the people in his courses. Not Louis, though; it feels like if Harry attaches the word love to Louis, it isn’t as straightforward as it is with his platonic relationships.

Maybe that’s because it’s not love; not yet. But it could be, given time.

But.

But it’s strange, because he spends his days with Louis and yet tells all his innermost thoughts to a faceless stranger on the internet. He falls a little more for Louis everyday, and he turns around and shares more of himself with Lewis as though to balance it. Like he can’t have his heart held by one person, so he split it in two; like if one relationship goes down in flames, he’ll have the other to fall back on.

Because it’s not just Louis that Harry is falling for. That’s the more obvious one, the one that hit him quicker. But there’s a boy who talked him through the hardest nights of his life, the biggest crises, the moments he thought maybe giving up would be easier. The mere idea that Harry is on Lewis' mind more and more sends shivers down Harry’s limbs. He’s never seen a picture of Lewis, might not even recognise him if he passed him on the street, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t close. Closer than anyone else in Harry’s life, even. Closer than Harry and Louis.

It hits Harry, right then, how wrong this is. There’s nothing physical, not on either side, but Louis doesn’t know that Harry goes home and spends his nights talking to Lewis, and Lewis has to receive message after message from Harry gushing about his real life crush. Neither of them have Harry’s full attention, and suddenly that feels unfair to everyone involved.

He knows he should wait for the morning and sobriety before doing anything he might regret, but there’s so much emotion built up in Harry’s chest that if he doesn’t let it out, he just might explode.

He reaches for his phone, his fingers fumbling and heavy against the screen, and sends a message. Then another, then another, then another, five in total, and he doesn’t even lock his phone and before it drops from his hand, the alcohol and weight of his thoughts pulling Harry into a fitful sleep.

___

 

Saturday morning dawns and Louis sleeps right through it, but he’s there to see Saturday afternoon and that’s pleasant as well. He doesn’t have anything on his plate until his shift at the bookshop, which starts in about an hour, so he lets himself laze in bed for a few more minutes. He points his toes and stretches, his muscles coiling and loosening.

There’s a knock at the door and Zayn pokes his head in. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Afternoon, arsehole,” Louis yawns back, and Zayn smirks.

“Can I borrow your laptop? Mine’s dead.”

Louis nods and waves his hand vaguely toward his desk, where his laptop perches delicately on a pile of books and papers. Zayn grabs it and clambers onto the bed next to Louis, squishing himself in against the wall as he opens a new tab and goes to his email. Louis lets his eyes flutter shut and rests his head against Zayn’s shoulder as he types, the click-clack of the keys lulling him into a doze.

“Here,” Zayn says a few minutes later. “All done. You might want to check your Tumblr, it looked like you have a lot of messages.”

“Hmm?” Louis asks, rubbing at his eyes. “Oh. S’probably nothing.”

“Oh, right, forgot you’re internet famous,” Zayn teases, sliding the laptop onto Louis’ legs and pushing himself off the bed again. “Me and Niall are grabbing lunch in a little while, wanna go?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, clicking on the open tab showing his Tumblr dashboard. “Gimme a minute.”

Zayn leaves the room and Louis clicks to open his inbox. There’s a message from a photography blog at the very top that Louis skips over, noticing a few messages directly underneath that one in a continuous chain, long, sprawling paragraphs with strange spacing and capitalisation. Louis frowns and finds the first one, his eyes widening as he reads.

 **_Anonymous said: HiIi_ ** **_lewiss_ ** **_it’s h I wanted to talk t o you abut simething and it   couldnt wait il tomorow sorry okay . I wanted t telll you I think Im in love !! ! with the b oy   Im always telling youo about, the one  frm the shop.  Did I tell   you about t e shop ? I wnt there to geet the books you tld me about  ( Im gnnna run out of  room so this i s mesage 1)_ **

**_Anonymous said: I’m reallly drunkk so Im sory  if this doesnt make sense .  So I met t his boy in   a shop and hes so beuatiful and perfecc t and i thinj Im in Love withh him. Hes got this  smile tht make s  my heart flip overr and h’es so smart and hes’ even  gay!! ! He told  me s o . AnD everytim we hang put  I thimk  ths cound be iT!! this is love!! but (2 )_ **

**_Anonymous said: I cant  ever talk to him abiut Holmes  cHapel an all th e stuff I went thr ough there. I dont  know why , or whAt Im scaredd of, but everytime he looks  at mE like he  kniws I want t talk about someth ing hard  I get scAred and cant do it .   but guesS what ?? I cn  talk to   youu abiut it !!!! bec aus e (3)_ **

**_Anonymous said: Th e boy in th bookshop  is special   but so are you.  Your’e both special and importnt to me and I  need both of you . Becase I dont gett to   see you , but yOu know  everything important about me . And I  get to see  him an Learn  abouT his kindNess and hi s  big hea rt and see hoW beautiful he is, but he doesnt know  me like you do. And Ive figured out what that means, I think . I think it Means Im in love with (4)_ **

There’s no message five.

Louis breathes out, his heart pounding. Holy shit. _Holy shit_. He doesn’t know what H was going to finish with, but he thinks he could guess and it’s scarily similar to how he’d been feeling himself.

But now he won’t know, because there’s no message five.

Louis scrolls down to see if Tumblr sent them in the wrong order, or something, but there’s nothing there. Then he scrolls back up, and stops.

Because there is a message five. He’d just missed it, because it isn’t anonymous.

Louis slams his laptop shut and tosses it away.

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t look. H had wanted to be private for a reason, and Louis should respect his wishes. A year and a half of messages, and it took being drunk for H to forget to click the option to send his message without attaching his name to it.

He shouldn’t look at H’s blog.

But.

But he has to know what H said.

He opens his laptop carefully and there it is, H’s blog name.

And, for the second time in less than a minute, Louis feels his heart stutter and skip.

 **_harrystylesphotography said: you too ,_ ** **_lewis_ ** **_. I’m in  love with  himm, and I’m in  love with you. But I cant have  you and  he doesnt have all of me. I  love  both of you. Howw am i  supposed t o choose?_ **

H is Harry. _Harry is H._

Louis clicks on **_harrystylesphotography_ ** and is met with a streamlined, simple blog page, with links to events he remembers Harry mentioning and different ways to contact Harry for pricing. Louis’ hand shakes as he scrolls down to find the last picture Harry had posted; it’s a picture of Louis, mid-laugh, the background of the bookshop muted behind him, a copy of _The Velveteen Rabbit_ in his hands.

___

 

Harry wakes feeling fuzzy and sweaty and like he’s supposed to be regretting something, but he just can’t quite remember what that is. He can hear Ed and Jade outside his bedroom, laughing and chatting and not sounding nearly as hungover as Harry feels.

He groans and rolls over, burying his face in his pillow, which smells like smoke and beer from Harry’s hair after the pub last night. His skin is tacky, though it’s cool in the room, and his phone is jabbing him in the chest from where he abandoned it after-

Shit. Fuck. Holy _shit_.

After he messaged Lewis on Tumblr.

Harry’s eyes fly open and his head pounds as he digs his phone out from under him, cursing when he finds it dead. He throws his hand out, scrabbling for his laptop. He yanks it open and navigates to Tumblr, thanking every deity above that he installed the extension so that he could keep track of the messages he’d sent as well as the ones he’d been sent. He clicks to his outbox and freezes.

Four messages sent on anon, babbling on about how much he loved Louis.

One message sent from his photography account.

 _Fuck_.

Okay. Okay. So Lewis knows his name. And that he’s in Manchester. And from Holmes Chapel. And that he's in love with Louis. Okay. It’s fine.

Harry shakily clicks back to his dashboard, noticing that his notifications are going wild. He clicks to his activity page and realizes that it’s the picture of Louis that’s spamming his notifications, the numbers of notes on the post jumping drastically from last night to this morning. He wonders what might have caused it, scrolling further, and further, until-

 **_saintlewis_ ** _reblogged your post_

No.

Why would he do that? He reblogs pictures all the time, and to anyone else checking his page it’s probably just a harmless reblog, but it freezes Harry’s pulse. Is he just letting Harry know he found his blog? Surely he wouldn’t do it so cruelly.

Harry clicks back to Lewis' page, expecting to see something different, like it has to have gone through some drastic change since Harry checked it yesterday. It’s all the same, all just like he would expect it, all except the most recent two posts: one is the picture of Louis from Harry's blog, the other is a tag post.

 

_x_

_Tagged: #h, #i’m at the shop til 5, #come see me?_

 

Lewis has a picture of Louis on his blog. Harry’s two lives are blending, and he doesn’t understand how. His mind refuses to connect the dots; it just can’t be. Coincidences are one thing. This is something else entirely.

Harry needs to go to the bookshop.

He scrambles to his feet and into the nearest pair of jeans, ripping a shirt off a hanger and yanking it over his head, shoving his feet into shoes. His elbow bashes the doorframe as he hurries from the room, ignoring Ed and Jade’s greetings as he rushes past them to look at the calendar hanging on the fridge. Leigh isn’t working at the shop today, as it turns out, and she didn’t write who is working instead; he turns, still ignoring Ed and Jade’s questions, and hurries to Leigh’s bedroom door, still shut.

“Leigh,” he says, bursting into the room. She’s underneath her covers, hair wild against the pillows.

“Ugh,” she groans. “Whaddya wan’?”

“Does Louis work today?”

She cracks an eye open at that. “What?”

“Does Louis work at the shop today?”

She sits up, her pyjamas askew, and blinks the sleep from her eyes. “I don’t know. Why?”

“I just need to know, Leigh,” he begs. “I’m sorry, I’ll explain later.”

“Schedule’s in my phone,” she says, pointing to her desk. Harry grabs her phone and puts in her passcode, tapping to her calendar app.

 _Louis_ , he reads, _working 12-5_.

_i’m at the shop til 5_

“Fuck me,” Harry breathes. “It’s him.”

“Who’s him?” Leigh asks. He doesn’t answer, spinning and running out the door, pausing only to lay her phone back down on her desk. “Harry!”

His stomach rolls from old alcohol and no breakfast as he takes off, down the hall, out of the building, toward the pavement and Grimshaw’s a few streets away. His shoes aren’t meant for running but they’ll get him there, and his hair flops into his eyes, heavy with product from the night before.

It’s both instant and an age before the Grimshaw’s sign comes into view, a stitch in Harry’s side making his breath come out in ragged pants. He bursts through the door, the bell overhead not tinkling so much as clanging his arrival.

Behind the counter, Louis’ head snaps toward him, and Harry can see the moment his breath catches.

“You came,” he says, sounding stunned.

“I came,” Harry agrees, still breathing heavily, though this time for a different reason.

He approaches slowly and Louis stays still. The thoughts in Harry’s head, usually so hard to put into words, come tumbling out of his mouth like something’s been unlocked. “You’re _saintlewis_.”

Louis nods, just once. “And you’re H.”

God.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees slowly. “I am.”

Louis stays quiet, and Harry understands; this all started with Harry reaching out but wanting to stay removed, and Louis is still giving him that option. If he wants to sort this out between them, he has to lead the way.

He takes a breath, another step. “It’s so strange,” he murmurs, running his finger along the counter. “You’re two different people in my head, and I can’t seem to push those together.”

Louis’ mouth ticks up. “Yeah, well. You’ve seen the hidden depths, Styles. Don’t go telling everyone.”

“Did you know it was me?” Harry asks. “All along, did you know?”

“No,” Louis says. “Just found out this morning. You?”

“About ten minutes ago,” Harry admits, and Louis grins weakly again. “Christ. This is weird, right? I’m not the only one thinking that?”

“It’s not just you,” Louis agrees. “I keep thinking about the word coincidence, but that doesn’t seem right. More like-”

“Like fate.”

“Fate. Yeah.”

Harry takes a deep breath, clenches his fingers. “Did you mean it?”

Louis flicks his gaze up. “Mean what?”

“Everything,” Harry laughs helplessly. “That I’m special. That you care about me. That you know everything about me, and you still want me around.”

“Of course,” Louis says. “I meant everything I said. I didn’t know it was you I was saying it to, but I’d have told you to your face as well.” His hand shifts, his pinky barely touching Harry’s.

“This is ridiculous,” Harry laughs again. It shouldn’t be this easy. He shouldn’t be able to get everything he ever wanted. “I’ve been tearing my hair out trying to figure out how to tell you things about me that you already know. I’ve been gushing about how great you are _to you_ , I drank myself into oblivion last night trying to reconcile how I-”

Louis goes still. Even more still than he was before. Like knows; like he realises what Harry was going to say.

“In your messages,” he says slowly, “you said you love me.”

It’s an easy answer.

“I did.”

“Did you mean it?”

An easier answer.

“I do.”

Louis smiles, and it’s like sunlight on ocean water. He reaches out and tangles his hand in Harry’s shirt, yanking him forward. Harry falls into his lips like coming home.

Last night he was in love with the boy in the bookshop and the boy with the blog and he didn’t know how to choose.

Today he’s in love with the boy in the bookshop and the boy with the blog and they’re the same boy, and Harry’s the luckiest guy in the world.

___

 

_One year later._

The bell over the front door tinkles a bright sound, and Louis calls, “Welcome to Grimshaw’s.”

“Still so welcoming after all this time,” comes a teasing voice, and Louis drops the inventory he was holding and spins around.

“You’re always welcome here,” Louis says, reaching out with grabby hands at the bag Harry’s holding. “Especially when you bring treats.”

“Is that all I’m good for?” Harry teases, leaning over the worn wood of the countertop and pressing a kiss to Louis’ lips. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Louis says back, kissing him again. “Now treats.”

“Greedy,” Harry grins. “I tried something new with caramel today, you’ll have to tell me how you like it.”

“Mmph,” Louis agrees, his mouth already full of the caramel bites. He holds up a thumb to show his approval and Harry laughs a loud, squawky laugh.

“Good.”

It’s been a long, wild year since Harry first walked through the door of this very bookshop. Niall got a job at a local recording studio as a talent scout and immediately recruited Ed for his first album. Zayn and Liam are engaged, planning on getting married a few months after Zayn officially settles into his place at an art gallery in London. Leigh is still at the Grimshaw’s, and recruited her girlfriend, Jesy, to take Zayn’s place when he moved. Louis helped Jade get a part-time position with his friend Perrie at the sex shop near the uni, which suits her perfectly.

Harry’s finished his first year of his photography courses and got a job at the bakery right next door to Grimshaw’s, where he bakes in the mornings and on occasion takes pictures of the newest products for the bakery's website. His side photography business is booming, specializing in LGBT couple portraits, helped along by the support of one of the biggest LGBT-friendly blogs in the Manchester area.

The _saintlewis_ blog is still open and active, and is now publicly run by Louis Tomlinson, the manager in charge of stocking Grimshaw’s with its popular LGBT section. He holds a biweekly book discussion based on recent LGBT works right here in the shop, conveniently catered by a cute, curly-headed boy from the bakery next door. He no longer worries about his blog affecting his future job; Nick’s dad pays him to be an LGBT resources expert, and the blog helps with that.

It’s been a long year, but one thing hasn’t changed: Harry’s smile is still a little disbelieving when he holds Louis’ hand in public, when they can walk down the street with his arm over Louis’ shoulders and Louis’ hand tucked in the back pocket of his jeans and not get a single second look. Things have changed, but Harry still shivers when Louis whispers how much he loves him into his ear.

Louis takes a bite of a caramel treat and smiles at the click of Harry’s camera and thanks his stars for Tumblr ask boxes.


End file.
